I haven't seen the Al Gore movie yet, but I already disagree with its premise. Dying animals, pandemic diseases, the eventual suffocation of all life on this planet. Whatever. The real inconvenient truth about warm weather is that it makes everyone within 20 feet of me exceptionally stupid.
I'm not sure what the correlation is between the tilt of the Earth and everyone else's idiocy, but it's real and it's undeniable, and it has me stricken with the worst case of SAD I've had in years.
It happens when temps hit the high 80s. People start taking too long in line at the supermarket, or they fail to turn left when the light turns yellow, and I get hit hard with SAD: Seasonal Aggressive Disorder.
It starts with sweaty palms, tense muscles and tightened jaws. If left untreated, SAD can progress to an intense disappointment with the human race. SAD sufferers might also experience strange mouth bleeding from all the tongue biting they're doing to keep from getting fired, divorced or arrested.
SAD hits me most when I'm on the road, as the road is a veritable showcase for overheated humanity's stupendous stupidity. A woman earlier this week spent the better part of two minutes veering in and out of a crosswalk in front of my seething Accord, as if trying to decide whether she felt like getting hit by a car that day.
On the Fourth of July, Hubby had to play Freeway Frogger against a man throwing lit sparklers out his car window. Lit sparklers. On the 405. It's no Kim Jong Il fireworks show, but, still. Who does that?
Once I get out of my car, the stupid doesn't stop. It follows me. Like Pascal's red balloon, only stupid.
What congressman can I write, demanding a law that requires summer lockdowns for dumb people? California needs one, man, or else none of us are going to get our burritos. I felt my blood pressure go from mild to muy calientethe other day when a woman in line at Chipotle was stumped by the menu.
The actual conversation:
Woman: "I want a taco. With some chicken."
Worker: "Corn or flour tortilla?"
Woman: "I want it extra crispy. Deep-fried."
Worker: "We don't have that. Corn or flour."
Woman: "You don't have that? You can't make it deep-fried?"
Worker: "No, ma'am. We just have corn or flour."
Woman: "But I want it deep-fried."
Worker: "We don't have that."
Woman (crossing her arms and pouting): "Well, I don't want one, then."
Worker: "What would you like, then."
Woman: "Not one of those tacos."
Worker: "Would you like a burrito?"
Woman: "What's a burrito?"
I have SAD so bad, I'm starting to experience it for other people. Sympathy SAD. A really sweet-looking couple and their adult son sat down near Hubby and me at a bar the other night. They appeared to be having a nice time. Then along comes this obnoxious blowhard who plops himself down next to them and starts regaling the parents with what sounded like failed bits from a comedy routine.
The son looked patient at first. But as the night grew on, and the stranger's stories grew longer, I noticed beads of sweat forming on his brow and his left hand clenching into a fist. I should mention here that Blowhard's victim was wearing a sweater.
At one point, the son turned to me, clearly trying to extricate his family from Blowhard's clutches by entering into a short, alternative conversation. I knew that's what he was doing, but I didn't make eye contact and pretended I couldn't hear him. I wasn't about to bail him out. See, as bad as I felt for him, I knew that getting involved might somehow make Hubby and me vulnerable to Blowhard. And if Blowhard started to sabotage our evening, I could end up in jail.
So I did the only thing a still-sane person with a bad case of SAD could do.
I played dumb.