Screw you, July. Your namesake Julius Caesar is aghast at your modern existence. You swoop, wholly uninvited, into the middle of our calendar year. Your fat feet track in unconscionable humidity which permeates our meager summer rags and glues us unceremoniously to bus seats and park benches. What monstrous slight did you commit to the Sun to make him beat down on us so? Have we not been adequately penitent in the winter months? The smarting welts left on our hands by the snow shovel; the thin facial cuts sliced by an icy wind; were they in vain?
July, you are National Hot Dog month in the United States and this is exceedingly appropriate, for you are a sordid amalgam of the cast-off dregs that other months would never deign to claim. Your one calling card, Independence Day in the U.S., has been reduced to a tawdry spectacle of artery clogging and vacant gazing at cheap, meaningless pyrotechnics. Holidays in other months are refined and steeped in healthy national tradition. On July 4th, a once-proud nation turns its weary eyes to multi-stomached human parodies who inhale tubes of unidentifiable meat for ten minutes. What else do you have? Bastille Day? Come on.
A perusal of famous July birthdays turns the stomach more than an unending stream of hot dogs could. You boast a veritable pu-pu platter of presidents (Coolidge, Ford), lesser versions of presidents (George W. Bush, John Q. Adams), comical candidates (Bob Dole, George McGovern), and iconic snafus (Monica Lewinsky). You have the worst Beatle (Ringo), the least successful Friends (Matt LeBlanc, Lisa Kudrow), villainous owners (Al Davis, George Steinbrenner), an eternal supply of steroids (Barry Bonds, Alex Rodriguez, Sly Stallone, Arnold Schwarzenegger), and O.J. freaking Simpson. And yes, I skipped all of the decent folks because I hate you, July.
Above all, you are audacious. You inflict us with heat and sleaze and possibly steroids, but you do not relent. You are The Bad Month, July, because you take away our football. You heave us into a vacuum devoid of NFL news and happenings. April, May, and June whet our appetites for a delicious, tantalizing new season. Our mouths are dripping, our eyes our wide, our bodies are ready. And July replaces our plump main course with a tepid tray of hot dogs. July, may you be stricken from the calendar anon! Bring on training camp!
(PS: I LOVE hot dogs)