I hate August.
If you have read my column for more than a few months, you likely know this.
Hate is a strong word, one I do not use lightly, and one which is never directed toward others. I hate the things some people do, of course. As Christians, we are called on to love the sinner, and hate the sin. August, to me, is an unforgivable sin, worthy of condemnation to deepest portion of Hell, where it would fit right in, and indeed, likely take over dishing out eternal misery and malevolence.
August is like the armpit of a mangy coyote trapped in a landfill. It reeks of decay and sweat, it itches, and it often has fleas.
I do not like August.
I am obviously not referring to my dear friend and brother in Christ, whose first name is August. Ironically, he was born in July, but that’s neither here nor there. Him, I do not hate. He does not often smell bad, whereas the month of August has the overarching aroma of a three-day-dead possum run over outside a paper mill.
As I write these words, I have two sick computers, a failing wheel bearing in my truck, another truck in need of a water pump, my wife’s car air conditioner has quit, the television has given up the ghost, and my cellphone seems to think I have moved to Estonia. Nothing against Estonia, but I have moved nowhere.
Even if I could move somewhere, I doubt it would do much good, because August would be there, too.
There’s no escaping the eighth month. It’s like the bubonic plague of the calendar. Moving somewhere would do absolutely no good. Besides — have you ever moved in August? I have. The only thing worse than moving your household is moving it in August.
I don’t care for wasting animals, so there’s no reason to hunt in August. The coyote hides are worthless, and harvesting a wild hog would mean dealing with a hundred pounds of spoiled meat before you could get it to the truck. My beloved catfish will bite, but you have to fish deep and patiently, which is hard to do when you’re reloading a shotgun to defend yourself against mosquitoes reminiscent of a beast from Revelation.
One can go swimming in August, but my favorite freshwater bathing spots are drying up, the water is tepid like bathwater, the air is overrun with biting flies and the land is occupied by tourists. My favorite saltwater spots are also like tepid bathwater, rife with sharks, fertile breeding grounds for the latest bacteria that someone has rediscovered, and occupied by tourists while being over-regulated by people intent on turning “Here” into the “There” that they hated so much they moved “Here.”
I despise August.
August is like the drunk uncle at the wedding of the cousin nobody likes, the drunk uncle in the mismatched polyester leisure suit who constantly talks about his gastric bypass surgery as he hugs everyone in a cloud of Hai Karate aftershave diluted with rubbing alcohol.
August is repulsive, repugnant, revolting, reeking, rat-tailed, rotten, messy, malicious, mouthy, motheaten, atrocious, acrimonious, anger-inducing, beastly, bullying, broken shoelace of a month that leads a writer toward run-on sentences filled with awkward alliteration and awful analogies that can only be assuaged by alcohol, which I haven’t consumed since 2006, and wouldn’t anyway, since any respite would be but temporary, and the next day, one would have a hangover – and it would still be August.
August, I detest you like an oily-handed incumbent politician running for re-election.
There are a few good things about August. Several people I love have birthdays. We have a couple of meteor showers. Then there’s — no. Wait.
That’s it.
I hate August.
But just about the time I will be willing to cry out like Job in his boils, begging for eternal relief from this most hated month, there will be a morning where September clears her throat.
The doves will fly as the corn is cut; the wind will be a shade cooler. Even though it will still be hot, and hurricanes will loom in the Atlantic, the wind will bring just a hint, a tease of crisp mornings and moonlit nights when the hound dogs sing.
Board tables will groan at church homecoming dinners. I’ll occasionally forget to roll up my shirtsleeves. The flies and mosquitoes will be a distant memory, and the evening sky will fill with the chorus of the earliest birds flying south.
September will comfort us like a loving golden mother, washing away the bad memories of August, bringing with her the celebration that is Autumn, with frost and persimmons and deer and bear and campfires and falling leaves and fur.
But that is a seemingly interminable month away from even its earliest stages, so for now — I hate August.
