Some say excessive sunshine softens the brain (repulsively soft already)

Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get The Blues

Go ahead, kid with me if you would like, but I admit, I once came up with a pet theory – part economics, part meteorology – to explain why so much poverty seems to follow the equator. The theory came to me while sweating my pasty, floury white cheeks off in the 10,000 pound down comforter heat of Barbados. I was trying to gather the motivation to take a shit, but the motivation was not to be found. And then, as clear as coconut juice, it hit me: In heat, we do not work. Not this kinda heat. Not in the devil’s rectum.

Here we solely maintain. We clap one handed in front of our faces to dance with the flies sharing the shade of our shrubbery shadows. We drink water. We drink more water. We baptize ourselves with Coca-Cola bottled, 7-11 refrigerated, waterfalls of plastic-tasting agua fria. But we do not work.

Borrowing from my neighboring discipline of chemistry, the theory went that at 40 degrees Celsius, motivation evaporates. (the vapor than falls on places like my querida native city of Seattle where things like airplanes and software monopolies are built) And this, unbeknownst to Hernando de Soto, is the real mystery of capital, the real reason why so much poverty exists in the bologna sandwich whose wonderbread is cancer and Capricorn.

But as my dear father would comment with a heavy sigh, eyebrows raised, eyes blinking: Monterrey presents some contradictory data to our original hypothesis. Adaptation may be in order.

The normal rectal temperature of a bumblebee is calculated to be 110.8 …

Tom Robbins, Even Cowgirls Get The Blues

‘Cause I swear to god, this city is hotter than a bumblebee’s butt hole. And yet so is its economy. Progress, progress, progress chant all the little ants as they file one by one to their offices and cubicles.

I arrive to teach one of my classes to the various accountants, engineers, CEO’s and – dripping of sweat and melted freckles – I ask how they concentrate in this meteorological nonsense.

“Ohhhh haha, teeeecheeer, eeets veery deefeecult for you yes?” they ask me with a sense of pride whose origin must be the bumblebee’s butt hole. Their faces begin to melt.

“Hell yes it’s deefeecult,” I say and I start making out with the air conditioner in their corner offices and penthouse executive suites.

I wake up at 6:30, no clothes, no sheets, and you’d think an entire boy scouts troop … or an entire Vatican City of priests … or maybe the two groups together … had a collective wet dream in my bed. But no, that’s sweat. And my head is pounding. It doesn’t matter how many glasses, liters, or gallons of water I drink the night before. My mouth is full of cotton swabs in the morning and my nose is full of petrified boogers, that after many millennia, will be slowly ground into petrified booger sand.

And still Monterrey progresses. Steel is sent. Car batteries are manufactured. Beer is brewed. Some sort of genetic engineering that has probably already found its way into the tortillas at taco bell must be responsible for the fact that motivation seems to not evaporate at 40 degrees Celsius here. Don’t you worry. I’ll get to the bottom of it.

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