Never seen it. Have I just embarrassed myself without even meaning to?
Until finals are complete.
In which case, for me, Summer starts at Noon tomorrow.
Spoiler:
She walks in the hotel room at night, and he wakes up suddenly. He’s got a pic of her, and lotion, and tissues out. He desperately tries to hide it, scrabbling around…
and a watermelon with a hole in it rolls out of the covers and thumps to the ground.
In case you still don’t get it, he used to hole to masturbate.
Today I spent an hour picking boysenberries in the cold rain. It was kinda bizarre. It should be summer, it was summer last week, now it isn’t and I’m wearing a wool sweater to work. I’ve actually never seen this happen before, it’s very weird.
…until the tourist traffic turns a quick trip to the corner market into a half-hour drive.
Until I’ve been wearing sandals every day for a week.
…until I decide it’s worth taking the car to work instead of walking for 25 minutes and arriving damp all over.
God, I hate the summer.
… without a brisk thunderstorm in the evening to cool things down after a hot day.
. . .Until St. Louis Cardinals’ broadcaster Mike Shannon says some totally incomprehesible malaprop during the course of a game.
Last night, in describing a routine ground ball that suddenly took a crazy bounce, he said “he couldn’t make a play, but right now he’s just happy he got his glove up and saved his pearly gates.”
Umm, That’s “whites” Mike. He saved his “pearly whites.”
Until I’ve visited my mom and grandma and had a peach and vanilla ice cream waffle cone parfait. drool
Until June 21[sup]st[/sup].
Speak for yourself. Me, my mind went to a Certain SDMB Classic thread that involved a watermelon. :eek: 
Anyhoo - it ain’t summer until I start sweating (which doesn’t happen until +80F – I still think fondly of the days where I could shock friends by whining about being cold on what they *claimed * was a 90F day :dubious: ).
Or…
… until Mike Shannon is drunk in the 4th inning on consecutive nights. (He’s soused tonight, because of the rain delay.)
… until the Cub bullpen wilts like lettuce on a hot sidewalk.
… until you question how people south of the Ohio river lived with this heat before air conditioning.
It ain’t summer till you eat your Ball Park frank.
…until I start bitching and moaning about how much I hate summers in Baltimore.
…until my husband I sit down at the laptop together to seriously try to figure out how we can move to Alaska for three months.
…until I burn the backs of my thighs on the leather seats in the car.
…until I start to research in earnest how I can have the sweat glands in my back removed (seriously, it’s like a frickin’ puddle back there).
Until the first week of oppressive heat.
Link, please?
For the last 3 years (including this one) for me Summer isn’t summer if I don’t have a stomach operation… I’m going in again next week. 
until I’ve removed the first wasp nest…
until one of my weirder friends drapes himself in towels and does an impromptu drag queen act around the pool (I got a feeling it’s coming this weekend)…
until the liquor store guy makes a comment about the sudden increase in liquor/beer buying. Oh wait, that’s already happened.