These Are My Thermostat Requirements When Visiting Your Home
I attended a Super Bowl party at a friend’s house on Sunday.
What I didn’t expect was the sauna and steam bath that came along with a small living room crammed full of people. This is what happens due to poor planning. A disaster. The whole place turns into a fucking sweatbox. If he invites me next year, I’m showing up in a bathing suit. I’m also bringing a fan and a cooler full of ice cubes. Then, maybe he’ll get the message.
Of course, I was the only house guest among his two dozen friends and associates who had balls big enough to voice a complaint. No one even had the courage to back me up when asked if anyone felt like they were about to pass out. I felt like fucking Spartacus. Three times I begged the host to “TURN ON THE FUCKING AIR!” Make that, three times in the first half!
I am Spartacus!
It’s already February here in Las Vegas, which means 70-degree afternoons. Sometimes it’s 75. You know what happens when it’s 75 degrees outside and you have a closed, unventilated space? Think of your car. The inside heats up to like 90! Same thing with someone’s fucking living room. Then, add in one of those big ass 65-inch TV’s radiating nothing but light and heat. But our host was apparently worried about running up a $60 utility bill. Naturally, he’s a Republican. Worse than that, he’s an accountant. Do the math, people. This guy doesn’t have a single credit card with a balance on it, and he’s never run up more than a $100 electric bill in a 2,700-square foot house, because he’s “thrifty.” When this guy thinks of a “fan,” a Japanese hand instrument comes to mind.
Voicing my physical discomfort didn’t do any good. Each time I complained, the host pretended to give a shit. But he really didn’t. Instead, he slinked around the corner and went down a dark hallway (apparently, he doesn’t use the lights either). He glanced over at me and jingled the thermostat a bit. He sure put on a good act, enough to fool the other guests. But he wasn’t fooling me. I didn’t hear the air conditioner kick in one fucking time! There was no “whoosh.”
By halftime, it became so hot inside the house that I had to step outside. That’s not exactly the worst thing that could have happened when Katy Perry is your halftime entertainment. Even this SUBTLE HINT didn’t register with the host — blind, deaf, dumb and oblivious to everyone else’s selfish comforts except his own. Now hear this: If half of your guests are going outside to get some “fresh air,” that should tell you something. Here, let me spell it out for you….YOUR HOUSE IS TOO FUCKING HOT!
Here’s the solution: TURN ON THE GODDAMNED AIR CONDITIONER! Like I said, it’s already February. If you want a donation, I’ll kick in a few bucks to offset the costs of the AC unit blasting away for three full hours. Pass around a dish, and you might even make a profit. How very Republican that would be.
The second half wasn’t any better. My discomfort turned into disgust as my bottle of Cotes du Rhone quickly heated up from a soothing 58 degrees to room temperature, and began to progressively taste more and more like cough syrup with each gulp. This is what happens when you leave a bottle of fine wine under a heat lamp for an hour. I uncorked my own bottle of wine early in the second quarter (I brought along a decoy bottle for others, so they wouldn’t ask to sample my private stock). By the time the Seahawks had built up a 10-point lead, a perfectly balanced and blended red coolant had deteriorated into 78-degree bathwater that was almost undrinkable. Somehow, I still managed to polish it off and then also steal a cold beer while the host wasn’t paying attention.
Well, I’m through attending these senseless parties and trying to educate oblivious hosts with no common sense. It’s simple physics. The average human body temperature is 98 degrees. What do you think happens when you ramrod 20 adults into a small room and have them all talking and yelling, and also exhaling CO2? What do you expect will happen? THE FUCKING TEMPERATURE’S GOING TO RISE! IT’S GOING TO GET HOT! AND PRONTO!
SO CRANKUP THE AC TO FULL FUCKING BLAST!!!
Why do you think television studios with live audiences are kept like refrigerators? They know that a bunch of people crammed into a room will rise the temperature almost ten degrees, on average. So, they frost the fucking walls in advance by cranking up the AC to the point of blowing a fuse. End result — everyone’s happy and comfortable, except for the one waif who always seems to show up with her shoulders uncovered in some kind of sun dress, then bitches that she’s cold.
Here and now, I’m posting my official thermostat requirements. If you plan on inviting me into your home, you must adhere to the following mandates. Otherwise, you will be blacklisted from hosting future social engagements where I am involved. I will not come to your event unless….
— The thermostat must be set at between 66 and 68 degrees in the summertime. No exceptions.
— The thermostat must be set at between 68 and 70 degrees during the wintertime. No exceptions.
— During spring and fall, my temperature requirements vary. Those with homes right on the ocean with gentle breezes are permitted 2-degrees of leeway beyond the 66 to 70 degree range, PROVIDED THAT THE HUMIDITY DOES NOT EXCEED 50 PERCENT.
— If the humidity exceeds 50 percent, power the COLD button on the thermostat down to the lowest possible temperature, and have every ceiling fan blasting at high speed. I’m not visiting your home to find out what living in Jakarta must be like.
— If you live in the mountains and it’s snowing outside, an active fireplace with real burning logs is permitted. Otherwise leave the motherfucker turned off.
— When I’m on your guest list, instruct all waifs to bring along a sweater. Better yet, have some blankets handy for your guests who don’t dress like Miley Cyrus.
— If there’s a large-screen television inside the room where I am sitting, keep in mind that object turns into the equivalent of a fire pit. Subtract five degrees from all temperature requirements posted above when there’s a ballgame on.
— When I say something about the temperature, just do it. I speak for the masses. All that matters is my feelings. Don’t ask me follow-up questions, or query the other guests. You’re objective is to guarantee my comfort, not conduct a Harris Poll of public opinion.
— If the situation fails to improve within a matter of time I deem acceptable, expect me to leave without explanation. You will then be forced to suffer the humiliation of trying to explain to your sweaty huddle of houseguests what happened.
I look forward to many future social engagements and receiving several invites in the future. Acceptance will be determined based on your adherence to these rules, in addition to the quality of free alcohol you are serving.
Thank you for your attention in this serious matter.