Whisper in a dead man's ear doesn't make it real

With the wind chill, it was minus 42 this morning. Minus FREAKIN' FORTY-TWO.

All I had to do was run across the street to feed the cats this morning. About half way there, in the middle of the road, my fingers went numb. About a quarter of the way there I lost all feeling in my feet. And that’s when I began to question, very loudly, why I lived in a place that got this frickin' cold. Minus forty two? To quote Lewis Black, that is not weather, that's an Emergency condition. The government should be called in, trucks should roll into town with blankets, hot chocolate and fire. 'Cause you'd think that if it was that cold outside people would just light fires all over the place, trash can fires that you could warm your hands by. But no. Not here in Winnipeg. Here in Winnipeg we're proud of the cold. When it's cold like this, we feel the need to mention it, often, with awe and pride. We stop each other on the streets: "It's crisp; really gets the blood pumping." "Yes, it does. And it's brisk out here today." Let's be clear about something: minus forty two isn't "brisk". Calling minus forty two brisk is like calling World War 2 a "misunderstanding." Minus forty two is "my eyes have just frozen open."

In his Divine Comedy, Dante described the frozen, desolate waste land reserved for the worst sinners and offenders in all of human history. He called that final level of Hell the "Judecca"... what he meant was Winnipeg.