I’d Rather Have Frostbite than Chikungunya

No, listen. Every winter, 98% of you are shivering your derriers off while you shovel your cars out of acres of snow in your driveways and pray they start so you can make it to the store to buy more kerosene and snow-wolf-killing-broadswords, or something.

Clearly, I don’t live in a northern climate. I live in a the nastiest approximation the continental US has to a tropical climate. And every year, you want to murder me with your broadswords because I complain about how <redacted> <redacted> mother <redacted> hot it is here, year <redacted> round. And the lack of seasons. And the stupid beaches, that I never liked even when I was 7 and bathing suits didn’t phase me. And the snowbirds. And the alligators.

And yet, I’m spoiled, you say. I have no idea what it’s like to live in a sub-zero hellscape full of abominable snowmen and toddler snowsuits. “HAVE YOU EVER TAKEN A TODDLER OUT OF A SNOWSUIT TO USE THE BATHROOM TEN TIMES IN TEN MINUTES, CALAH?” you ask me in ALL CAPS.

“No”, I say. “Indeed, I have not.”

Well now, my friends, I’m turning the tables on you. Have you ever sent your entire family on a rage-killing-mosquito-safari in November? INSIDE YOUR OWN <redacted> HOUSE?