Everything is better with ice chips
07.16.2005
One of the many wonderful genetic traits I inherited from my mother, besides deformed toes, whacked teeth, a resistance to local anaesthetic, and a tendency to go into self-imposed isolation for long stretches of time, is a warped internal thermometer. My mother's mental heat sensor, and subsequently my own, were not zeroed out based on any kind of average climatic tendency on the planet Earth. No, I suspect that somewhere in my maternal biological history can be found the genetic footprint of a yeti. It would certainly explain the feet. If you visit my mother's home in the dead of winter, you'll find all the windows open and 2 foot snowbanks building up in the corners. If you ask her to shut the windows, the invariable response will be, "But it's not cold - it's fresh."
I'm much the same, I'm ashamed to admit. Even here, where winter temperatures can plummet to -30C and lower, I usually have at least one window opened a crack. It's fresh.
Unfortunately, this makes summer almost unbearable for me. While everyone else is pining for temperatures somewhere around 25-30C, I'm collapsing from dehydration as I sweat out every drop of water in my body while taking a walk in 20C heat. God, do I sweat. It's really quite revolting. When I wake up on a summer morning, regardless that I've slept in the nude with no covers, my pillow is usually soaked with the stuff and my hair is wet and slimy. The rest of the bed, however, is generally dry as a bone. My tendency to perspire is limited entirely to my head. My fur cap for hair probably has something to do with it, but even when I'm bald, I sweat. When bald, of course, the hair doesn't catch the shit before it drips into my eyes. This subsequently leads to intense stinging and yet more water pouring from my tear ducts. Therefore, not only do I drop from dehydration, I'm also blinded. Oh joy.
I've often wondered what exactly is wrong with my head. Oh sure, I'm a freak, but does that actually lead to skull pores suffering complete breakdowns and vomiting up their entire porous contents upon being exposed to the toasty goodness of the sun? Is there some kind of parasympathetic nervous reaction between random insanity and perspiration? Am I doomed to spend my life forever either in walk-in refrigerator or an igloo in order to remain pleasantly dry? Do they make deodorant sticks for foreheads, or will I have to spend my life looking like an entire football team came on my noggin and I just didn't bother to wipe it off?
My perpetually hot and bothered state has led to an addiction, a habit I simply cannot break, and don't want to. I am addicted to slush.
Slurpees are generally vile creations. The syrup bears no actual resemblance to the flavour it's supposed to emulate, and is so stupendously sweet that I'm quite sure I can feel my pancreas puckering into a wizened prune upon taking one sip. When buying a slurpee, one would be wise to also bring along an insulin kit for safety reasons.
It doesn't matter. Slurpees are so wonderfully cold. Mmmmm. The paper cup that leads to nirvana rolls so sweetly across my brow, dispensing its icy goodness directly into my brain. Heavenly ice chips slide down my throat and signal their arrival in my tummy with a cool, cool esophageal shiver. I can live with the syrup. I can accept that Wacky Watermelon is green, not pink, and tastes more like lighter fluid with added honey, or that Berry Burst makes my ears bleed. I'm OK with that. It's the sole reason I keep chilled club soda in my fridge, to water down such hell and make heaven shine through.
I want to have my own slurpee machine. Either that, or someone please tell me where I can purchase vats of slushee mix. I would slurpify the world. I would ensure that no slurpee addict would ever have to have 911 on speed dial for those semi-regular diabetic comas or have $10,000 worth of dental work to repair the sugar-induced mass cavity attack that fills their mouth. Those slurpee makers don't know what they're missing out on. They've been marketing exclusively to kids and teens, when there's a killing to be made in adult slurpees.
If I had the power to render the world in slurpee form, I would slurpify all liquid sustenance. I would slurpify milk for breakfast enjoyment - skim for the diet-conscious. I would slurpify coffee - no, not that sickening, vile whipped-creamed pseudo-coffee crap they sell at Starbucks and call "frappalappaccinos" or "mochalokilattes". I mean real coffee. Black. And slurpified. There would be slurpified grapefruit juice and apple juice and orange juice. There'd be slurpified green tea, chai tea, black tea, Earl Grey tea, mint tea, chamomile tea, and even regular old slurpified orange pekoe tea. I would slurpify V-8 juice for vegans. I would slurpify protein shakes for bodybuilders. I would even slurpify egg nog for some special ice-cold holiday cheer. However, my greatest slurpee creation would be the slurpee to end all slurpees, slurpee ambrosia, the slurpee of the gods.
Beer slurpee.
Now, I realise that someone already came up with the idea of slurpifying alcoholic beverages for summer enjoyment, but what I don't get is why they stuck with those prissy, wimpy girl drinks like slurpified margaritas and daiquiris. I don't want a fucking slurpee with an umbrella in it. I want a grown-up slurpee, a butch slurpee, the kind of slurpee hockey players would drink after a game and dump on each other's heads in celebration without feeling as if they're potentially compromising their masculinity. I would make Guinness slurpees to sell in the bleachers of rugby matches, Corona slurpees for the Latino crowd, microbrewed slurpees in every shade and hue for the beer slurpee connoisseur. Slurpee madness would ensue. I would be as wealthy as Bill Gates.
Then I would expand my market. I would slurpify sangria, wine spritzers, and vodka coolers for the hip and happening urban woman. I would slurpify martinis for the evening business meeting crowd (with wee little ice cube olives). I would slurpify cooking sherry for the homeless wino baking on a street corner. My pi�ce de r�sistance, however, would be slurpified single malt scotch. Here, have a shot of slurpified Glenmorangie! Tip your hat and glass of slurpified Oban! Don your smoking jacket, light your pipe, pick up that volume of Byron's verse, and sip your slurpified Glenfiddich to your heart's content, knowing that you too, you overeducated pseudo-erudite snob, can take refuge from the summer heat.
Finally, for the overindulger, I would whip up some lime juice, tomato juice, and tabasco and slurpify a slurpee hangover remedy. Oh sure, you may get a touch of brain freeze, but isn't it worth it for a taste of icy heaven?
10 more days to Diaryland supergold membership retirement. If any of you can spare a dime, or in this case $20, it would be much appreciated. If so, please grace me with your wondrous benevolence and buy Smoog a gift. My sweaty noggin thanks you.
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