Chris Johnson

Good? Delicious BBQ, SEC football, grits, waitresses who call you honey. Bad: Heat

When I was a kid — like 1,924 weeks ago — I loved summer. The days were longer. I could stay up later. There was no homework. And the girls who would not give me the time of day during the school year would still not give me the time of day, but they’d not give me the time of day at the city pool while wearing bikinis. Heck, I had a Casio watch and didn’t need the time of day anyway.

However, I’m not quite the fan of summer anymore. I still love going to the beach and not having homework — not that I actually did homework — but I’m not such a fan of melting and sweating in the record heat that has resulted from the climate hoax run amok.

You probably won’t be surprised to learn that last month was the hottest June in history or that this month is likely to be the hottest July in history. Of course, those kinds of figures come from untrustworthy sources like NASA, which 50 years ago accidentally landed on the moon while on a mission to Mars, leading Neil Armstrong to utter those famous words: “Close enough.”

And NASA certainly can’t be trusted with its climate data because the agency been utterly infiltrated by folks called scientists — the people who collectively only know about such basic fields as astronomy, microbiology, thermodynamics, nuclear physics, quantum mechanics, quantum biology, “Quantum Leap,” x-rays, gamma rays, manta rays and cloning a sheep … you know, kindergarten stuff.

You think I’m gonna trust some stupid scientist who studied meteorology over someone who truly understands climate like my Uncle Joe? When the temperature plunged to 28 degrees on March 6 at Possum Holler Creek Resort and Trailer Park, Uncle Joe used his independent, common sense climate research to produce his groundbreaking “Global warming my big ol’ butt” report — issued verbally and not online like some fancy-pants scientist. Then he went back to watching “Fox and Friends” while finishing off his breakfast PBR like other trustworthy climatologists.

I don’t know if I trust scientists or NASA or thermometers, but it dang sure feels hotter these recent summers in Georgia, and that has me seriously contemplating whether we should pack up everything my wife has ordered from Amazon in the past 24 months and move to someplace up north — like LaGrange, Pittsburgh, Anchorage or Nunavut.

But when I think of all the things I’d be giving up if I moved north just to avoid our new brutal summers, I put the move on hold. I’m just not sure I can move away from delicious barbecue, SEC football, grits, waitresses who call you honey, Southern accents, golfing in January and sunny beaches.

Then again, there are a few Southern things (not many) I can move away from just fine like armadillos, modern country music, bacteria-infested beaches, skeeters, snakes and — the worst thing — the heat.

Then again, it recently hit a record 90 degrees in Anchorage, Alaska — that’s 25 degrees above normal and five degrees higher than its previous record. Worse than that, the community of Alert, on the northern tip of Baffin Island, in the Qikiqtaaluk (no, the cat didn’t just walk across my keyboard) region of Nunavut, Canada, recorded its highest-ever temperature a little over a week ago at 69.8. Alert, by the way, is the northernmost permanently inhabited place on Earth, the closest you can get to Santa’s Workshop before ICE (Immigration Control by Elves) detains you and tosses your kids into separate, overcrowded igloos.

I guess I’ll just stay here and endure these brutally hot summers. My only hope is that frozen margaritas will help me cope with the heat. Or maybe I can drink enough to think I’m in Nunavut.

Or the North Pole.

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