The Moon-men Respond

Dear Earthlings,

Sorry this is a little late—we’re on moon-time, which is not an actual time difference, just an in-joke about our habitual laziness—but we only now got a lookey-loo at this LCROSS thing, and we had a question: The fuck you guys doing down there?

Really, now—you thought you’d just space-blast a satellite at 5,600 miles per hour toward our bumpy undercarriage, and we wouldn’t even notice? We’re moon-men! We live on the moon. And right now, our moon looks like someone took three scoops out of a tub of Rocky Road, and then swallowed half of it, and then spit-taked it back all into the atmosphere, like some bad Kirstie Alley comedy (we haven’t gotten a transmission from you guys since 1989, so our references may be a little dated). We were already feeling pretty insecure about our appearance—the gray, the cratering, etc.—but now we look terrible. Worse than Pluto (who’s still mad at you, by the way).

And for what? You need water? You guys already have more water than all the known planets combined: You have water in the ocean, and water in vending machines! You have water that’s just for ironing boards; water that tastes like metal; water with seriously ‘tarded names like “B-Relaxed”; and water that’s made by rappers—or, at the very least, bottled and marketed using their likeness—and advertised in oddly homoerotic men’s fitness magazines! What do you need our water for? Not that we definitely have any. But if we did, you could have at least asked.

Oh, great, just got another text from the sun: WHAT HPPND? WANT TO NO THE “HOLE” STORY!! Such a dink.

What’s most hurtful about this, Earthlings, is that we’ve never done anything to you guys. Granted, there’s the stuff with the tides. And the lycanthropes . But other that, we’ve been pretty chill. We rotate. We keep our gravitational pull in check. We didn’t even file copyright claims when Armstrong made that mockumentary about coming up here.

But now, you’ve left us with no choice but to exact revenge. We don’t wanna look weak, like Uranus (total laughing stock—shoulda changed its name years ago, like Beaver College). So, at some time in the near future, we’re gonna do…something. Maybe we’ll make it rain, basalt-style. Or maybe some moon rocks might mysteriously wind up smacking the next shuttle flight (great job you’re doing with those, by the way). Most likely, we will order some pizzas to your house, and not in a fun-sexy way, like the Kirstie Alley film Loverboy. Really, we could use some new movies up here.

In closing: Look out, Earth! We shall forever alter your literal and figurative definitions of darkness! Etc., etc.

Signed,

The Moon