A Note of Warning

If John Munch ever, ever tells you he knows how to deal with a heat wave, punch him very,very hard before he can speak.
I used up all my vacation days, I think, because he had the bright idea that we should pose as each other's MOM and phone each other in sick. Not only that, the stupid bastard phoned me in dead.
In theory, hitting the sale at the liquor store and buying three ice tubs - one for my feet, one for his feet, and one for the booze was a great idea. In practice? Ice shots, bad. Listening to Munch's theory that the faster we got drunk, the faster we'd forget about how hot it was, even worse.