Mad Max: An Open Letter to the Sun

Mad Max

Where the fuck do you get off?

I’ve had it about up to here with all this heat, buster. You’re not fucking Apollo—you’re just a fiery ball of plasma—so don’t go tear-assing across the sky every day acting like some Greek god in a chariot. You’re embarrassing yourself worse than my old high school principal in his red Miata, and at least he had a stereo.

I’m living with a very nice married couple now in their mid-40s, and aside a 21-year-old chronic stoner whose never had a serious girlfriend living in their house for 3 months, the last thing they need while they try to do this whole “going green” thing without an air conditioner is record highs in the city. I have to rotate anywhere I sit so the sweat doesn’t get to be too much on either side. Not that I’d even call it sweat at this point; it looks and tastes more like some sick syrup. (MAXLE SYRUP: COMING SOON TO A DOLLAR STORE NEAR YOU!) I slept on a towel last night even with two fans on me. It was just like sleeping on a beach if the beach was a soggy velour couch that smelled like my rented tux after prom.

I mean, my balls are sticking to my leg like Velcro over here, and I can’t even say that to my roommates except the dog, and even she looks at me like it’s a step over the line.

And another thing: quit fucking burning me. It doesn’t make it any easier to lie in a puddle of my own sticky sweet skin juices when I can’t roll over without making the same face I make when I think about bamboo fingernail torture. I’m not the one who came up with “Sun’s Out, Gun’s Out”—that was Newt Gingrich when he was in the House. And ever since the passage of SOGO in ’97, I’ve only acted as a law-abiding citizen when it comes to matters of covering my arms on sunny days, and you’ve been a real dick about it. I’ve even ruined nice shirts tearing the sleeves off in order to get a cop or two off my soaking wet back, and the only sympathy you can give me is this ultraviolet bullshit.

Not that I’m ungrateful for nice weather. I love a sock-free day as much as the next guy who’s trying to make those dread-locked plant bio majors hot with his non-Adidas sandals. But the intense tan lines on my feet only draw attention to the weird little hobbit hairs on top. It’s like Teva Time isn’t even worth it anymore.

And the reality in this heat is that even if someone wanted to get tender, I would refuse because I’ve got enough of my own sweat all over my body. Two people in bed during a summer like this is just a mattress-sized gravy boat waiting to happen.

We get it, we need you. We couldn’t live without you. Is that what you wanted to hear? Is it? Because if so, you’ve got some serious self-esteem issues to work out on your own.

Quite frankly, you’re acting like the whole world revolves around you.

Fuck off,

Max Cothrel

Last week, Max was angry at Starbucks. This week, it’s the weather. We feel your rage, dude. If you agree, follow Max on Twitter. 

Oh – and he’s also a stand up comedian.



(Photo: Max, an American man, amidst the beating, inferon-like sun, by Cynthia Robinson)

One thought on “Mad Max: An Open Letter to the Sun

  1. Pingback: Found In A Bus Stop Trash Can « Rascal Magazine

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s