thursday, 31 august, 2006
Dissed. Demoted. Summarily
dismissed. Yes, as everyone this side of Alpha Centauri knows by now,
some cranky cabal of planet nazis meeting in Prague has yanked the
credentials of Pluto. With a stunned galaxy looking on, the coveted
Solar System Seal of Approval has been bestowed upon the planetary
Group of Eight...now seen thumbing their noses at a
banished Pluto and its forlorn band of Kuiper Belt homies.
Formerly a planet in good
standing for the past 70-odd years, Pluto had long been well-regarded
by the vast majority of Earthlings and frozen methane enthusiasts
everywhere, notwithstanding a Garbo-esque reputation for being distant,
icy, and just a tad dead-ish, perhaps.
Despite widespread street cred, however, Pluto finally succumbed to a
smear campaign of withering snark from a clique of malcontent
scientists. Knickers in a twist over activist judges? Me, I'd keep an
eye on activist astronomers run amok.
Alas. So much, then, for the
once-shining ideal of inclusiveness in this little solar system we call
home. What's more, it's a slippery slope, I'm afraid. Mark my words:
today it's Pluto stripped of its planethood. Tomorrow, Hollywood.
Where, Dear Reader, will it all end?
But steady on. As this story
goes to press, late word is that negotiations are under way to restore
Pluto's full planetary status and attendant privileges. No less an
emissary than Major Flavius Grammaticus "Spiff" Syntax, stalwart of Her
Majesty's Royal Space Dragoons, has reportedly been dispatched to
reopen a dialogue between high-ranking Plutonian officials and
duly-designated Earth-based authorities.
Fresh from quelling a
pan-dimensional rampage of the mutant tofu-people of Zoloft-5, and hard
on the heels of saving a seemingly doomed universe from the marauding
Death Hickey of Deliria-X, Syntax is renowned as a peerless
intergalactic grammarian-at-arms, skilled at deploying an array of
hyper-linguistic gifts to resolve conflict and sow harmony among
far-flung life forms. (See Spiff
Syntax vs. the Lethal Interjection, Spiff Syntax and the Subjunctive Mood
Rings of Saturn, et al.)
Only time will tell whether the intrepid Major Syntax―named Most Eligible Carbon-based Grammarian eleven years
running―can succeed once more where
lesser mortals have failed.
meanwhile, back on planet earth...
There's a lot to talk about politically, of course, but I confess to not having the stomach for it at the moment. (And not only because I just finished dinner, either.) Lucky you, you're spared all but a scant few lines of rant tonight. Anyway, it's basically the same old same old: as both Chief Executive and Commander-in-Chief, 43 continues to inspire a nation and a world in his own inimitable way.
First and foremost, the President is busy staying the course, in an attempt to reshape and realign the Near East with Iraq as a blazing beacon of democracy in the region. Well, Iraq is blazing, at least, as Dubya tries his hand at this staggeringly presumptuous bit of armed geopolitical feng shui. All the while, as he stays the course in manly Texas fashion, he daily explores new frontiers in cluelessness, scales new heights of self-delusion...and even in the most mundane of tasks, generally raises the bar for epic underachieving.
Admittedly, it's somewhat heartening to see the guy's poll numbers eroding, and yet utterly depressing to think how many more will needlessly die. I'm afraid his numbers could be farther south than your average emperor penguin, and still he'd be denouncing "cut-and-run appeasers." After all, Old Glory is red, white, and blue through and through, with nary a trace of yellow―right? If staying the course is good enough for strategic/tactical mastermind George W. Bush, it's plenty good enough for the rest of us, I reckon.
On the other hand, for a truly engaged, informed, and insightful take on America at war―from the smoking business end of U.S. force projection―you could do a helluva lot worse than check out this, or any of the reflections posted here. If only the C-in-C would add such things to his own reading list, it might be a good first step toward waking up and smelling the cordite.
And on that note, I'd better sign off for now, before I start sounding really seditious. Also, time's a-wastin', and an ominous pile of laundry awaits my attention before I call it a day. (I swear it's giving me the evil eye even as I write this.) Next time I promise to bring you up to speed on all the latest real news, like getting new glasses, having yet another go at Indian cooking, and a recent close brush with John Tesh. Top that for a teaser, "Lost." Till next time, then. [Cue closing theme, roll end credits, mop up spilled beer...]
posted 9:20 P.M.
powered by 36 palate-pleasing ounces of Pete's Wicked Ale
© 2006 Jerry Armstrong