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.)
This solar flare was supposed to be a Big Space-Deal. It was supposed to knock space stations out of orbit, scramble GPS systems, cause your microwave to begin receiving satellite radio signals which would be pretty awesome actually, flatten power grids, cause the Earth to begin rotating in the opposite direction and ruin your cell phone signal, unless of course you have AT&T, in which case your signal hasn’t worked in six years anyway and hey maybe a solar flare would do you some good. It was supposed to cause disruption in the planet’s magnetic fields and, as such, and make a huge mess of everyone’s refrigerator doors. And it was to have been the LARGEST IN EONS, at least since the solar flare that killed the dinosaurs (look it up, that’s just science), and the one that killed President Lincoln (listen, I’m not going to argue facts here).
Or maybe it was supposed to be a monster? I don’t know, because obviously I have no idea what a solar flare is. I know basically that it is something that explodes off the sun and flies to Earth, and if the rich tapestry of American cinema has taught me anything it’s that ribbons of fire ejected from the sun are rarely things you want aimed at you.
Indeed, if I learned anything from public schools it’s that we’re almost certainly all going to die from a death ray from space, and, you know, Mayans and everything. Between those guys and Harold Camping, you hear “solar flare” and all you think is basically “cosmic death ray” and Martians and the blacking out of the sun and Martians again, because I’m kind of scared of Martians.
And what happened? NOTHING. Zero. I’ve had greater disruptions in my cell phone service from driving underneath overpasses. So thanks for nothing, science, thanks for getting me all worked up about death from above and then delivering me not even one lousy reversal of the planet’s magnetic poles. This is why people don’t like you, science. And frankly if this keeps up, I’m totally voting for Santorum.