jorts The recently passed Paris Climate Accord is sure to usher in engine-sapping emissions requirements and higher prices for gas, power and food, and what is the point?

The only people who hate global warming are effeminate hippies who despise fast cars, mouth-watering steaks and large phallic smoke-stacks expelling big globs of pollutants all over mother earth’s sweet, natural tits.

Now, 195 nations have reached this nonsensical agreement to reduce greenhouse gasses, which is silly because global warming rules.

Here it is the middle of December, and thanks to the magic Spring-producing pollutants we’ve sent into our atmosphere, the sun’s heat is being trapped and I’m wearing a wife-beater and shorts when I’d normally be wearing a wife-beater and long pants.

I also just finished grilling a delicious lunch of hamburgers and some weird mystery meat I found in the back of our freezer. It looked like lamb, but it tasted like deer, and whatever the hell it was, because I was able to cook it on the charcoal grill outside, it was fantastic.

And just look at that majestic bastard up there to the right. He didn’t see me take his picture at the grocery store yesterday, but I couldn’t help but admire his jorts, which thanks to global warming he was able to wear with just over a week to go before Christmas.

And when I think of how happy he probably was driving home in his Pontiac Firebird t-top, blasting Night Ranger and fist-pumping the shit out of the song Sister Christian, I know global warming is getting an unfair shake.