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Let’s rewind to 1950 — a time when the sun didn’t just shine, it tried to murder you. Back then, summer didn’t come with SPF 50, a/c units, or fruity popsicles shaped like SpongeBob. Nope. The only thing standing between a boy and full-blown heatstroke was sheer, unfiltered dumb courage and peer pressure.These were sweat-stained savages in tube socks, out there cooking like strip mall fajitas on asphalt, inventing wild, logic-defying ways to beat the heat that made no medical sense but created 87% of the grandpa stories we hear today. And somehow—somehow—they lived to tell ‘em.&nbsp;THE "HUMAN POPSICLE" MOVE Imagine twelve scrawny kids with knees like knuckles and hair slicked back with desperation, stuffing themselves into the back of an ICE DELIVERY TRUCK. Not riding it—riding IN it, inside the frozen meat locker, like human packs of salmon.It wasn’t cooling off. It was cryogenic stupidity. They’d emerge blue-lipped and babbling, wrapped in towels like frozen burritos. My Uncle Earl swears he saw a kid get so cold he started speaking fluent Morse code, blinking and twitching like a haunted telegraph. And his mom? Just threw a towel at him and told him to "go sit near the stove."&nbsp;"SPRINKLER ROULETTE": THE HYDRANT HUNGER GAMES You ever seen a 10-year-old try to tame a fire hydrant with a garden hose and a dream? You have not lived. The neighborhood boys would MacGyver a sprinkler system so forceful it could strip the paint off a Buick. The game? Run through it without dying.Half the time, they got yeeted across the yard like a ragdoll, landing in Mrs. Henderson’s award-winning azaleas. (Which, by the way, she never forgave them for. Her ghost is still mad.)&nbsp;WATERMELON CAVE OF REGRET Oh-ho, here’s a classic: Take one watermelon the size of a beanbag chair. Hollow it out. Crawl in. That’s it. That’s the plan.Was it cold? Sure. Was it sticky? Absolutely. Was it a bee magnet that nearly turned into a live-action Winnie the Pooh bloodbath? You bet your sticky shorts it was. Boys would emerge from that thing looking like fruit-scented Sasquatches, screaming and flailing while being chased by a swarm of vengeance-fueled hornets with nothing to lose.&nbsp;POOL OF PUDDING (aka Instant Death by Dessert) This one’s for the culinary daredevils: Raid every mother’s pantry for pudding packets like it’s a dessert apocalypse. Dump 'em all in a plastic kiddie pool. Add cold hose water. Stir with a stolen rake. Then? Cannonball.You haven’t lived until you’ve seen eight boys try to swim through three feet of lukewarm chocolate glue, flailing like dying dolphins, coated in goo so thick it required a shovel and possibly an exorcism to remove. Kids would go home covered in pudding, ants, grass clippings, and shame. Moms would just sigh, point to the hose, and go back to chain-smoking.&nbsp;THE LEGENDS WERE BORN THIS WAY These weren’t just heat-avoidance strategies. These were battle rites, manhood initiations forged in watermelon juice and garden hose bruises. Every one of those stories has been passed down and jazzed up like fish tales, until you’re not sure if you’re hearing about a summer afternoon or the plot of"Die Hard: Backyard Edition.So the next time you're complaining that your air conditioner isn’t “cold enough,” take a moment. Think of Billy Joe and Ray Ray and Skeeter and Toothless Timmy, jamming themselves into ice boxes and pudding pools with all the wisdom of a possum on a trampoline. And thank them. Because without them, we wouldn’t have comedy.Now go. Share your family's dumbest summer heat story in the comments. And don’t you dare leave out the part with the bees.&nbsp; Want more? Subscribe to The No Club Club — because if you survived a 1950s summer, or just laughed till you cried reading this, congratulations: You're in.<h3>[thenoclubclub.com] We put the “no” in normal.</h3>email us:&nbsp; <a href="mailto:THEBULL@THENOCLUBCLUB.COM">THEBULL@THENOCLUBCLUB.COM</a>

HOW BOYS IN 1950 SURVIVED SUMMER WITHOUT MELTING (BARELY) Warning: Do not read while drinking milk. You will snort it out your nose.

<h3>HELL IS REAL AND IT’S CALLED TUESDAY.</h3>Let me walk you through one of the great historical tragedies of our bloodline.My cousin—who we’ll call "Derek," because his real name is "Derek" —decided one 4th of July to “entertain the troops” by lighting a bottle rocket from between his butt cheeks like he was trying to declare independence from common sense.That firework went places.It arced. It screamed. It rewrote the definition of “hot seat.” You ever seen a grown man sprint into a kiddie pool like his butt just got baptized in jalapeño oil?&nbsp; I have. And let me tell you what did not work:Diaper rash cream Cooling Hemorrhoid ointment A frozen bag of shrimp Saying “I’m fine” And hiding it from his parents, who still think he sat on the grill by accident He didn’t poop for three weeks. I’m not even mad—I’m still impressed.THE URINE OLYMPICS OF 2002 Let’s talk about trauma. Real, formative, soul-bending trauma.One summer, the older cousins dared us male cousins to “see who could pee the furthest” on a wire fence sround the cows. Classic. Innocent. Olympic-level urine athletics.They backed us up like it was a precision sport. Stages. Technique. Aim.No one thought to ask why the fence was buzzing like it had secrets. No one considered the phrase "electric livestock deterrent." But we found out. Involuntarily. Via groin lightning.That fence zapped us so hard, my cousin Tommy did a cartwheel and forgot his middle name for two years. I personally saw heaven, hell, and my 4th grade math teacher all at once. And I swear I can’t listen to static without twitching.We learned valuable life lessons:It zapped us into puberty and right back out again. It rearranged our DNA. I don’t even know if my family tree has branches anymore after that stunt. Just one long scorched stick with all of us lined up, humming like a bass guitar.Don’t trust cousins named "Roy" Electricity is fast Pee should never whistle And puberty can go backwards SO WHY READ THIS CHAOS?&nbsp; WHAT'S THE POINT? There is no point. It’s hot, it’s Tuesday, and we’re all questioning our sanity. But at NoClubClub.com, we say:Be loud. Be weird. Be the reason someone else laughs so hard they reconsider their family reunion plans. Because if you’ve ever had to explain to an old family pharmacist why you need burn cream, hemorrhoid ointment, and a frozen bag of shrimp on the fifth of July—you already belong here.&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; 🔥 LIKE OUR FACEBOOK PAGE IF YOUR COUSINS NEED TO BE CALLED OUT. 🧨 SHARE THIS POST BEFORE YOU COMBUST. 🚫 JOIN THE CLUB THAT IS NOT A CLUB BUT IS A CULTURAL NECESSITY. 💀 WE CAN'T GUARANTEE LAUGHS. BUT WE CAN GUARANTEE SWEAT STAINS.ONE MORE THING-MAKE "NOT ROY ROY" FAMOUS, WE BEG AS A FAMILY, LIKE HIM ON <a data-mce-href="https://www.facebook.com/willRoypleasespeakup" href="https://www.facebook.com/willRoypleasespeakup" title="FB-&quot;ROY FARMER&quot;" target="_blank" rel="noopener">FB- "ROY FARMER"</a>-WE ARE TRYNG TO PUT UP FRED SANFORDS PICTURE.&nbsp; PLEASE GO BEFRIEND HIM. HE WILL FRIEND YOU BACK. THIS IS ALL NEW TO HIM.&nbsp; (WE THINK HE HAS LOST HIS MIND-HE THINKS NO ONE CARES..LOL)&nbsp;

HELL IS REAL AND IT'S CALLED TUESAY!

<h3>&nbsp;“It’s Not the Heat—It’s Your Family” (But Also, Definitely the Heat)</h3>Ah yes, the sweet scent of summer—charcoal smoke, burnt hot dogs, Aunt Rene's baby oil tanning oil, and the unrelenting 800 degrees of family tension that only July 4th can bring. As the sun melts your flip-flops to the pavement, your uncle is melting down over politics (again), and your cousin is triple-dipping chips like it’s a constitutional right. It’s hot outside. But it’s hotter under the backyard tent where everyone’s pretending to like each other for one long, sweaty afternoon. This isn’t just a cookout—it’s a slow roast of generational trauma wrapped in red, white, and who-made-this-potato-salad?Now, the potluck sign-up sheet was a cute idea… until six different people brought baked beans, three brought chili (WHY?!), and not one soul thought to bring ice. And don’t even get us started on the ice cream situation. Can we, as a society, agree to stop pretending plain vanilla is anyone’s favorite? We want fireworks in our dessert—sprinkles, chunks, swirls, hot fudge, broken dreams, yes, broken. anything with ice. Just cold, whatever! Meanwhile, Grandma’s yelling about “just being grateful” while fanning herself with a paper plate and side-eyeing Linda for trying to pull off store-bought coleslaw. Again.This year at The No Club Club, we’re honoring all those who show up, sit down, and endure the hotter-than-hell family circus that is Independence Day. You’re not alone. You’re not crazy. You’re just related. So come laugh with us, because if you’ve ever suffered through a July 4th cookout where tempers boil faster than the corn, then congratulations—you’re already a member. Subscribe, share, and join the chaos. It’s funny ‘cause it’s true. And hot. Mostly hot.&nbsp; We will be waiting for your stories.&nbsp; Send us your best so we can share.Signed-THE BULL~or Roy..we havent figrued it out, yet.

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HOW BOYS IN 1950 SURVIVED SUMMER WITHOUT MELTING (BARELY)...

HELL IS REAL AND IT'S CALLED TUESAY!

July 4th: United in Food, Divided in Literally Everything...