One hundred and five degrees in the shade. That was the temperature inside my garage this afternoon. Which of course got me chompin' at the bit to write up a tale of The Great Icepocalypse of Ought Six. A drama in real life that includes families and trees split apart by layers of ice, twenty-mile detours, a missing generator, a fat red pinky finger, and a passel of genius-slapping morons.
My internal temperature has lowered two degrees just thinking about it.