No, I’m Sorry. It’s Too Hot.


STEVE: Good evening, you heartless, demanding strawpeople of pure, unbridled anxiety I’ve conceived entirely in the cold, damned void that is the space between my ears. I regret to inform you that our next piece, “Please Don’t, It Doesn’t Go In There,” has been canceled on account that it’s too damn hot. And before any of you can even think to ask, yes, I am fully aware that I had more than enough time to complete my work before this very moment. It’s not as if I put much care or thought into anything I do, obviously. But I’m afraid I really couldn’t be assed in this heat. Sure, I could have a huge, steaming pile of my usual aneurysm-inducing attempts at… whatever the Hell it is I do. I could have such a pile. But I don’t. Because I’m a moron. But more than being a moron, I am also a very hot, sweaty moron contemplating whether or not it’s worth expediting this whole process by sticking myself in the oven and having my dog set it to a relatively pleasant and relaxing temperature. I’m not proud of my incompetency or my utter lack of foresight, but I am proud of it. Thank you, and please, remember to give me money.