The Weather Report From Lake Woebegone

Meteorologically equivalent to a heavy hot hulu Super Duper Hadron Collider like hoop, (but Google Plex in size), which doth ring around the not so rosy Earth, and diametrically opposite of Polar Vortex (perhaps an apropos nom de plume would be Hades Furnace) asphyxiating, clapping, and encapsulating thee entire oblate spheroid ova planet found the Norwegian Bachelor Farmers residing in lake woebegone to accept climatologically exhausting forecast gracefully hobnobbing insouciantly.

Judgement day could be similarly blazing hot on the saddle, or cold as a witch’s tit, which constant reminders during a Spartan, slated singe shearing, stoic upbringing inured us Lutherans to bite the figurative bullet (which melted like caramel during those scorching, sea-sickening, and sun-stroke unbearable vaporizing winds.

Thus my ordinarily moderate level heaving, generating, and fostering energy felt zapped, whereat little effort to summon forth even the mere thought to scroll thru plethora of emails, reminisce online forays vis a vis thru mem re: lane, or even forcibly keeping these heavy eyelids opens found me napping more often than usual.

Please do not in the least interpret this commentary as a complaint, cuz the lifetime of deprivation currying comfort t’would invite guffaws from the ghosts of yesteryear.

Since noting can be accomplished by moaning and groaning (though a sneaky suspicion trickles within me noggin that Hack n Sack housing phlegmatic weariness) finds me taking thee only recourse to fall prey upon the mattress atop a box spring kept in this dungeon.

No matter the temperature considerably cooler (especially with a box and desk fan blowing pleasant air), nonetheless I still lose out viz zit head by exertion as a zero sum game.

Experience a priori previous bouts of feeling dead tired (and the impossible mission to prevent eyelids to shut tight), or even the slightest effort to muster locomotion and take one measly step fraught analogous with shrugging Atlas off thy shoulders, and oft time resorting to call upon (and require), the strength of Hercules.

Thus, though objection arises to concede any measly flickr of energy to succumb into a non-refreshing sleep, the impossibility to fight off the sandman (even after the futile effort to involve reputation of Rob Zombie, The Boss, or Wu-Tang Clan, that joint endeavor finds me collapsing in a heap upon the above mentioned makeshift modus operandi to slumber.

Aversion to oust the sensation without fail finds muss elf drag an this approximate one hundred and forty plus pound corporeal complex edifice as if being anchored, impounded and stricken to bear the weight of a led zeppelin flown by a beastie boy foo fighter. Lack of impetus to expunge inertia finds gravity to win this scrimmage.

Though livid to cave into exhaustion (muffled by curses against global warming), no force within this body electric can foist, hoist, nor envision a mighty strong joist to leverage even a dollop of energy.

Once thine noggin delves into pillows, an instantaneous dream weaver doth cap cha this zonked out Capricorn, who when arising some few hours later feels equally as tired, spent, and ready to keel over into the garrisoned Octopus's garden in the sea.