DAMN SHE'S A SWEATY BE-ARCH

Don't really see the point in having a thing like this without revealing more pointless, potentially embarrassing and slightly humorous things about myself. As the title suggests this one is about getting all sweaty. The sweaty be-arch (street slang for bitch in case you were a bit clueless) in the title refers to me. I am one hell of a sweaty be-arch (is anyone else getting sick of that word yet?) in fact my co workers use me as a barometer. When someone feels hot in our office they will turn to me and say

"Yo fucko, is it hot in here"

and if I say

"Nope"

they will think twice about arcing up the air conditioner, then again, because I'm so sweaty, I will generally encourage them to set it to chill anyway cos I'm bang up for the cold. I've heard stories about David Letterman having his TV studio nut freezing cold, I can sympathize, if I was in a suit, under hot TV lights, I too would want it so cold my nether regions resembled a second belly button. Being a sweaty individual doesn't help when you grow up in South Australia, which actually holds the record for being the driest state, in the driest continent on earth and it can crank out some seriously hot summers. In fact I just got off the phone with my heavenly mummy who's just be suffering through a 39 degree day (102.2 Fahrenheit) and it's been like that for a few days. Still, as luck would have it, that wasn't hot enough for me. Eager to pursue a career in the media, it would figure that my very first job would be in the north west of Western Australia, where everyday is generally over 35 degrees. In fact, I remember one particular day when our temperature gauge was flashing "HHH" because the outside temperature was too hot for it to read. Even more horrifying was the fact that it was well before midday when it happened. Suddenly, as my sweat glands were organising a search party to find all the available water in my body and preparing for its release, I get a phone call from the air traffic tower saying

"Hey fucko, we just wanna know what your temperature gauge is reading cos ours is saying it is 62 degrees (143 Fahrenheit) outside and we think it might be broken"

as a 19 year old, working in the bush (which means country, small isolated outpost, shitsville) that was enough to do my tiny head in. Of course that was before I left the comfort of our air conditioned office to walk home. Here's a tip, in those temperatures, those oh so funky black Raybans we wore in the late 80's tend to heat up so quickly that they actually start to burn your face and your forced to remove them very quickly. So here I am sweating like I'm the living, breathing equivalent of Niagara Falls, my sweat glands are so widely open that I look like I have a billion tiny mouths vomiting salty water all over me, plus I'm practically blind from the glare of the sun. If the walk home had taken any longer than 5 minutes I honestly believe I would have experienced spontaneous combustion in all it's flesh fusing glory. As for the amount of sweating, well lets just say, even when it is freezing cold here in Melbourne (a place recognised for being cold and unforgiving) I can usually be found 5 minutes into my walk taking off my scarf, 10 minutes later removing my beanie, 15 minutes later removing one glove so I can wipe the slick of sweat off my buzz cut head. Ya huh I said buzz cut, there is no thick mop of hair there to add to the warmth, its a zero buzz cut, which means its pretty much a freshly shaved ball that still manages to overheat. Now I know in some circles it is considered horny to work up a sweat, to be all wet and slick, especially when it comes to sex, but with me, I can lean in for a romantic snog (pash, suck face, French kiss, a bit of tongue hockey) with the hubby and I will need to change my t-shirt and have a shower...OK now I am exaggerating but you get the general idea. If I had my way and money was no object (Hello Paris!) I would have someone walk around behind me with a big fuck off air conditioner pointed directly at me, either that or a nice foot bowl full of iced water. Then again perhaps I could go the surgery option and have a few glands severed, burned, annihilated, exorcised, evicted and asked really nicely to piss off and don't come back. Though knowing my luck, that would mean I would be reduced to panting like a dog or all the sweat would combine to force itself out of any available pores which would probably mean I would spend the rest of my life wearing adult diapers and sliding around with a wet arse. Anyway just typing this has got the armpits a bit moist so I'm off to find two sanitary napkins and stuff them where the sweat won't stop dripping.