I may not have been born yesterday (November 22nd 2016 is my birthday) but it is patently obvious, even to a youngster like me, that this is not a Florida day.  I mean seriously!  The brochure says ‘hot sunny days with chance of hurricane’.  It seems that Florida decided to have winter this weekend.

I went to bed just after dinner last night and it was a rather cool 25 C.  77F for the fuckwits that can’t use intelligent measurements, but insist on intelligent design.  I woke up this morning to find it at 0C. 32F for the fuckwits that think that there is any intelligence in the way anything in this world is designed.  I was close to death!  Hello!!  A little warning would have been nice.  This is the bloody sunshine state, not the tundra of northern Siberia. I know the difference.  Even at my tender age.

siberia    ≠    beachresort

In Siberia your neighbour is either a Gulag denizen or a frozen mammoth.  Here it seems to be limited to a grotesquely overweight octogenarian couple on the one hand and a refugee from sanity on the other.  Given that the couple on the left generally have a 60% chance of being refugees from the northern reaches of this continent, reflect the sun, reject sunblock and smell faintly of naphthalene and the one on the right is on a watch list somewhere.  You really might prefer the gulag and the mammoth.  The temperature is not my thing though. It could be quite unpleasant to try and piss on a mammoth in – 40 C.  -40F for the fuckwits who…, oh you get the idea.  Or not apparently.  it is called the METRIC SYSTEM 7 billion humans and at least 5 dogs use it!

Weather aside for a moment. Combine all of that misery with what  I saw on twitter this morning and I was very nearly off my food.  Shivering and desperately clinging to life with icicles hanging off my rapidly bluing tongue I inched closer to the screen and saw a picture of an orange ball sack twittering on about his love affair with the Emperor of Siberia. Apparently we should all just get along and start swapping houses on our land masses.  As I said, very nearly off my food.  Very nearly.  Thankfully the manager turned on the heating and all was right in the world.  He very kindly called me a handsome boy, and I may have barked a little and tried to bite his hand.  It did smell of food.  In my defense.

My plan for the rest of the day.  Warm up.  Check that my balls just haven’t dropped yet, rather than frozen off and then go pee all over this weekend of winter.