A Planet in Our Hearts

Recently, while conducting some research for a paper I just made up for the sake of this story, I came across some very startling information. Among the chaos that the world is going through; war in the middle east, the tragic and completely unpredictable death of a man who fights crocodiles for a living, and Rosh Hashanah, one story dwarfs them all by comparison, and in light of this new information, I simply have one question,

WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN PLUTO ISN’T A PLANET!!?!?!?!?

First my therapist tells me there’s no Santa Clause, my brother tells me I’m adopted, my dad tells me there’s no such thing as a female orgasm, Mel Gibson’s dad tells me there’s no such thing as the Holocaust, and now you scientist fuckers are telling me there’s no planted called Pluto!? This has been a terrible week.

I was raised my entire life believing that Pluto was a planet. It’s what allowed me sleep at night. Whenever I was feeling down and out, I could look out my window and now that Pluto was out there somewhere doing it’s thing: being a planet.

These so-called “ass-trologists” were the nerds that used to pick each others noses and practice French kissing with each other because they knew no girl would ever do it. These pathetic bastards held all their anger inside and finally decide to take it out on the most vulnerable culprit; Pluto. Beloved by all, cute, tiny, adorable, and doomed. “Hey,” one scientist says to another, “look there’s Pluto,” then simultaneously both scientists proclaim, “DWARF PLANET!!!!” then laugh so hard they shit their pants. Trust me, that’s what happened.

I mean, what the hell is a Dwarf Planet? It’s still called a planet, but it’s not really; sort of like ‘little people.’ Tiny, cute, still technically called ‘people,’ but I mean come on, who’re we kidding? We only still quasi-respect them because it would be such a hassle if they attacked.

Oh my god! What if Pluto decides to attack? What if Osama gets a hold of it and Pluto goes all meteoric on our asses? It will be like a tragic ending to a Hollywood film. Crashing towards earth at an incomprehensible speed, heartbroken Pluto seeks its revenge. After a failed brief stint with a nearby traveling meteor group Pluto has nowhere left to turn. Shunned by all his friend for his forbidden love of another planet, Pluto has nothing left to live for and focuses all its energy on the one planet that took it all away; Earth. As Pluto comes careening toward earth his lover can faintly be heard blaring in the distance. “PLUTOOOOO” comes the futile last scream from a heartbroken Jupiter; but it’s too late. A single tear comes streaming down Pluto’s face as he careens with the earth. The music picks up and suddenly all that can be heard is Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World,” over the image of a tragic end for both Pluto and its old friend, Earth. Roll End Credits.

Perhaps I’m being too dramatic. Perhaps Pluto will take it all in stride, going on to bigger and better things. I mean, who are we to decide who is and who isn’t a planet? Earth, with its one moon to Jupiter’s two. Earth has Moon. Pluto has Nix and Hydra, two European beauties who have run away from their strict and controlling parents to have carefree unprotected sex with dwarf planets day and night.

It is not Pluto that I worry about, for Pluto is a planet composed of methane, carbon monoxide and pure testicular fortitude, it is us that I worry about. For in the future, when my grandchildren are sitting on my lap asking me of what was in my day, I shall regale them with tales of Pluto. I will tell them of its size and it’s moons. I will tell them back when Pluto was a planet and life was easier. I will tell them of better times.

You're Worthless; You're Welcome

I’ve always had a supportive family. They’ve always told me how great I am, and how ridiculously awesome a human being I am, and how much potential I have. All this support has naturally left me to believe that I am the prime benefactor of some multi-billionaire’s will, and they’re just kissing ass before it’s too late.

I’ve been pampered and complimented all my upbringing, and I’ve grown up soft. What I need is a good ol’ fashioned ass whooping. I need to be beaten when I disobey, and whipped when I speak out of line. I need to know that I’m worthless.

This doesn’t apply only to me, but to millions of people growing up like me. To the pampered youth being raised in loving households with families that believe in them; you make me sick.

Don’t get me wrong, everybody needs love and everybody needs support but with this needs to come a dose of reality. Most of us are raised being told how special we are; which coincidentally happens to be true in my case, but for the rest of you, it’s a lie. You suck.

We’re raised to believe that we can do anything and be anything we put our minds to and this is simply not true. You can not do anything you put your mind to. If you could we wouldn’t need pumps and internet ads for penis enlargement. Some dreams are unattainable.

What about little Jimmy who wants to be nothing more than a stapler when he grows up, who are you to build up his hopes of one day fulfilling that dream? Imagine how much more heartbroken that guy you just accidentally stepped on, sleeping on the sidewalk is when he wakes up and realizes he’s not a big Hollywood director. Imagine little John Kerry’s disappointment when he realized that when his parents told him he could be the President of the United States of America one day, they lied.

I know that it may seem disheartening to think that the best you can aspire for is middle management, but it’s really not so bad. There’s nothing wrong with being average, nothing wrong with being normal. Besides, if you’re a female, you’ve got a vagina. Use it.

My “thing” has always been writing. My family has always told me it’s good and that I can have a profession in it. They read my work and they tell it’s great, they tell me to keep writing. I love my family and appreciate all the support they give me, but now I have a set of expectations. I can be a writer if I apply myself, and if I don’t achieve this, I’m a failure.

So again, for these reasons I repeat: Beat your children. Tell them they’re useless, convince them they’re adopted, spit on them for fun. Tell your offspring they’re ugly talent less hacks, and remind them how lucky they are that the clothes hanger missed their head when they were inside their mother. Remind your kids that they are not special.

If we were all without expectations than we would all be without disappointment. Life would be easy. We would be happy. Have dreams, but make them reasonable expectations. Family support is important.

My family will read this, and they’ll tell me how well written it was, and how much they enjoyed it. They’ll tell me to keep writing.