Iran into someone the other day who actually revels in the 95-degree, 110 percent humid weather we've been having. Sultry, she called it. Languid and sexy. Clearly she's been reading way too many romance novels based in the South.

Personally, I've had enough of this pore-clogging, nostril-stuffing, skin-suffocating, eyeball-burning summertime. I don't know where Gershwin was from, but the summertime livin' is definitely not easy. Not around these parts.

It's been so bad, I actually found my mind wandering in (barely air-conditioned) church the other day. I couldn't help it, it was just so hot. I got to thinking. Hell is supposed to be hot, right? But what if Hell isn't only hot, but humid, too?

I can just hear old Beelzebub shilling for Hell right now. "Sure it's hot, but it's a dry heat." So you fall for it and you go ahead and tell that lie or commit that securities fraud. Maybe you even dally with that gorgeous, but spoken-for, neighbor or co-worker and convince yourself that you can take the heat.

Only when the day of reckoning comes and you step up to take your punishment, you discover the truth.

Hell isn't just hot, it's humid, too. Feverishly, devilishly, unrelentingly humid.

See, you don't quite burn in the fires of Hell (as promised), because there's just enough moisture in the air to render you a clammy, fire-retardant mess. You can't pass out during the torture sessions because there's always another drenching wave of your own sweat to revive you. And just when you think you'll be able to (mercifully) choke on the smoke, a satanically inspired thunderstorm passes over that leaves your private patch of Hell even more humid than before.

Oh, you cry out for a corner of cool, but there is no answer. You beg for a breeze, but you can fuhgeddaboutit. You hallucinate snow cones, but Hell won't freeze over.

In agony you curse Dante for an Inferno that left out Humidus, the 10th and most terrifying ring of Hell. You remember Mark Twain said, "Go to Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company." But you can't even enjoy the company because it's just sweltering and you're not wearing all-natural fibers.

It can't continue, and yet it does -- day after scorching day, night after sticky night. You feel like one of those chickens-on-a-spit at the rotisserie joint. How you wish you'd asked more questions before you bought into Hell. Why didn't anybody give you a clue?

Snapping back to real time, the sermon was ending with something about acceptance of things we can't change. I guess I better resign myself to accepting what all Hellsters know: It's not the heat. It's the humidity. But I still don't get the "sexy" part.