Wicked Cold

I clipped the Christmas lights to the rain gutter, orderly, well-spaced, jutting rigidly outward in a festive multi-color array.

The process is simple, and has been reduced over the years to a memorized pattern. I know where to place the ladder. I know where to run the extension cable. I know exactly how many strands are needed to span the face of my house.

I can put them up blind-folded and half drunk if necessary, and I usually do...

This year, though, the going grew slow, as my fingers were seized by the biting cold.

Now, anyone that knows me, knows that I'm not one to shy from dipping temperatures, but goddamn it was cold out! As I was reaching overhead to clip the lights to the lip, I relied upon tactile touch to guide my efforts. My frosty blue-tipped phalanges, however, were lost behind the veil of hypothermic numbness.

The cold has continued, and just this morning I was forced to face an onslaught of small talk about the workplace, which resulted in the utterance of the inevitable and unfortunate phrase: "Colder than a witch's tit."

Which, obviously, has caused me to ponder

Just what in THE hell does that mean??

Witch's tits are cold?? Why is that? Is it from spending too much time in the lap Satan? Does performing mystical fellatio on Beelzebub's boner cause a decrease in breast tissue temperature? Is that in the bible? I don't remember it being in the bible, and believe me, I've read most of it...

Further, I doubt there being any scientific studies on the matter either.

Literarily, how many cold-tittied witches have there been? Sure, there was the Wicked Witch of the West, but she had more of a penchant for melting than freezing... And Glenda the Good Witch, well, she was all warm sunshine and smiles. I couldn't imagine there being even a slight dip in degrees about her bosom.

Then there is Willow. Good Willow. Gay Willow. Evil Willow. You cannot convince me that there is a single thermodynamic deficiency in her lovely and perky sweater puppies. Damn you! don't even try.


And Samantha Stevens? Derwood didn't appear to have any complaints. Not one. Neither of them.
And so, I am left to ponder the origin of the conversational cliche. Sure, the vast cerebral breadth of the information super highway could perhaps answer my mostly-rhetorical inquiry, but alas, I am tired and now bored with this post.