A NASA probe speeds away from the sun's recent solar flare, which was destroyed by the Empire.
GateHouse — HEY, SOLAR FLARE.
YEAH, I’M TALKING TO YOU, LOSER. THE FLARE LOOKING THING, IN SPACE, THE ONE THAT’S SOLAR. You suck. You are the worst solar flare ever. You are a pink fluffy unicorn of solar flares. You are a fragile porcelain mouse of solar flares. You are a Hallmark Christmas ornament of solar flares, one of the ones with a basket full of puppies waiting for Santa with cookies or something. One time in 1999 I had to evacuate my hometown for a hurricane that ended up sputtering out over the Atlantic and arrived as the kind of autumn shower best used for frolicking and making sure one’s azaleas are sated. You are the Blooming Azalea Spring Shower of solar flares. Try to look cool in front of your black hole friends now.
Sigh. My apologies for using valuable Internet to yell at a galactic event that I do not remotely begin to understand, but I have good reasons:
- I find that most of my problems can be solved by yelling.
- It wasn’t even a galactic event, really. This big-shot solar flare that was supposed to burst forth from the sun, scorch its way across 93 million miles of cold black space and rock the Earth like a solar hurricane did what I can best describe as jack squat, given the inconsiderate confines of the average newspaper reader’s sensibilities, and apologies to my grandmother, for whom “jack squat” is probably pushing the limits of what’s acceptable discourse among respectable company. (Sorry, Grandma, I write dumb jokes and “jack squat” is kind of right in my wheelhouse.)
All of these objects will one day fall out of space onto your house, but try not to worry too much.
GateHouse — I think if we can agree on anything, it’s that none of us have ever had to worry about satellite parts raining on us from space.
Oh, sure, there’s a lot we have had to worry about this week — George Lucas adding more stupid crap to “Star Wars,” panther attacks, our ridiculous doomed “government,” that stupid ticker on the new Facebook that just keeps yapping away about what my friends are listening to on Spotify which is about 500 kinds of obnoxious and also I need to talk with my friend Aaron about what is evidently some kind of Sunday morning Phil Collins fixation — to name a few.
But if there’s anything that brings us together as a people and binds us as humans, besides football, it’s the ability of the American people to band together, join their figurative hands and say, “None of us need worry about being whumped by plummeting space satellite debris, because when our broken space junk starts raining home someone with a computer will know what town it will be-crater.”
Look at The Moon, being all smug.
GateHouse — Well, everything seems under control down here: What’shisname, the dingus politician, is off “Dancing with the Stars” because of a deviated coccyx or whatever; Jon and Kate have been quietly locked away and are, with any luck, currently being tortured; health care reform is pretty much done, except for the details about excluding the very short. There’s only one thing to do when things have reached such a state of calm, measured stability here on Earth: destroy the moon, immediately.
Luckily, NASA’s with me on this excellent plan, though they have been resistant to some of my awesome other ideas, such as the Scaffold to Jupiter and the Space Crocodile and the Buzz Aldrin Memorial Floating KFC, which was scuttled when I couldn’t secure funding from KFC and it was also revealed that Buzz Aldrin was not dead. Last Friday morning, the organization, which once actually got a bunch of federal dollars to do this kind of space stuff, catapulted a spacecraft named LCROSS into the moon’s South Pole, to kill off all of its remaining penguins.
GateHouse – I don’t mean to alarm you, but you and everyone around you are soon going to die.
So if you haven’t recently called your Mom for a little “Five People You Meet In Heaven” emotional cleansing, if you have any particularly egregious sins that need repenting or if you have anything left on the Bucket List to tend to, now’s probably as good a time as any.
Also, if you’ve been looking at that giant plasma-screen but weren’t sure you could really afford it, well, I’m no financial adviser, but I think it’s probably OK to knock yourself out. You can’t make payments when you’re hurtling through space, so you may as well spend your precious last few hours on Earth absorbing “Celebrity Rehab” in sweet, glorious high-def.