Ninja Hookers & Frozen junk

Q:  How do you know if you have run into a Ninja Hooker?

A:  You don't see anything, you don't hear anything, but suddenly you find yourself fucked.

The wind was like a Ninja Hooker last night.  It was so freaking cold that I shut down the brew shop early.  That little space heater about melted itself, and it could not get the room any warmer than 55.  I said "hell with this" and jammed about seven.  Who could have known that the wind, which had been saving itself all day, was going to ambush me around the corner.  WTF?  I stepped out of Jack and went around the corner.  Out of no where, the Ninja Hooker Wind hit me.  It got me with one leg up, preparing to step down.  Whoop.  Instant junkcicle.  Seriously.  My balls froze solid.  First time for me.  Like the mile high club without any of the bennies.  I can not begin to describe the exaggerated care I had to use to get down the stairs without letting the frozen jewelry clank together and shatter.  It was like walking down a flight of stairs with a bowling ball tied to the boys.  Seriously non-superior.

Some of you on this list might be Yankees.  I might not have gotten all of you yet.  Some of you are displaced Yankees.  *cough Gidget cough*  You fuckers are the ones running around saying "Oh, it's not bad!  It's only 11!"  Let me give you a little hint.  Eleven is fucking ridiculous!  I don't care how cold it gets up north.  I have enough sense to not live up north.  If I wanted to have my external genitalia frozen solid on a regular basis, I'd move to Maine.  I have in the south for a reason.  It's damn sure not for the wonderful public schools and highly intelligent conversations in the trendy bistros.  It's so I don't have to deal with temperature below twenty degrees.  Simple as that.

Any Southern Boy will tell you that the only acceptable time to be out in the cold is when you are in a deer blind.  You still hate the cold, but at least you get to shoot something.  It's sort of a trade off.  By my wind chill calculations, the blasé of wind that hit me was {lets see 19 degrees with an estimated 20 mph gust… carry the 7…} minus one hundred thirty seven degrees.  There is not a deer big enough to compensate for this atrocity.  Ok.  We had enough fun.  Bring on the Global Warming.