WHAT THE . . .

So, I walk into chambers this morning and it's EIGHTY-EIGHT DEGREES in here.

Hooch, D and the Judge were already melting. I wilted mid-sentence and started frantically fanning myself. I discovered that panting through the mouth does not do for humans what it does for canines.

It's now a balmy eighty-four degrees. We have three fans blowing the hot air around. I think I've adopted JC's delicate constitution and am coming down with a case of heatstroke. Nausea and a headache might prevent me from eating lunch . . . no wait, who am I kidding . . .

How wilted must we be for the Judge to come out of his office, take one look at us, and in essence declare that we look pathetic? Oh dear . . .

UNCLE SAM, IT'S CALLED CENTRAL AIR. And hiring people to maintain it correctly.