Monthly Archives: October 2013

No Santa Claus at Titan’s North Pole. Liquid Fart Lakes Abound.

titan

Ahhh…the North Pole- a magical land filled with fluffy snow, gingerbread houses, and friendly, industrious little elves. Santa lives there. So does his old lady. They thrive on nothing but cookies and hot cocoa, and the talking reindeer that live with them play and play and play all kinds of jolly games all the times forever. I’ve never actually been there, but it sounds awesome. Good job, Earth, on maximizing the potential of what could have ended up being just another desolate, frozen wasteland. Well done.
On Saturn’s largest moon, Titan, however, you can just go ahead and cancel Christmas. Yes, you read that correctly- just cancel the crap right out of it. Why? Because, instead of turning its North Pole into a magical place full of carbs and laughter like Earth has, it’s gone and filled the place up with what are basically whole lakes of liquid farts. Now you feel me? Scientists will tell you that this is due to an atmosphere made up of hydrocarbons like methane (and a bunch of other -anes and -enes) and a Fahrenheit surface temperature of around 289 degrees below zero. These temperatures are cold enough to liquify methane which is, um, gaseous on our planet.
Well, we all know that scientists think they’re pretty smart with all their science mumbo jumbo talk or whatever, but there are some who would totes disagree. I would be willing to bet that Bill O’ Reilly or Sarah Palin could be convinced that Titan’s failure to upgrade its North Pole situation is just part of the OBVIOUSLY GALACTICALLY PERVASIVE “War on Christmas”. Therefore, I propose that we use this issue as an excuse to launch these two people far, far into space right away. Someone needs to get to the bottom of this affront to our most beloved holiday, dammit, even if it means plumbing the depths of Titan’s frigid fjords of fluid flatulence forever. Right on.

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the moon you know

moon
Do this: Next time the sky is clear and the moon is bright, go to a window with a good view of the thing. Ideally, your window will have blinds because you are not a complete imbecile. Open those blinds. Turn off the lights. Yes, things are about to get intimate. Make yourself comfortable. Keep your head very still and your eyes on the moon. Just sit and breathe and watch quietly for two minutes. Using the rungs of your blinds as a measure sit in awed silence as it blazes past each line in a matter of seconds. Holy shit, amiright? (high five) Does anyone else smell the awesome?!
Well, I did. Last night. I smelled it something fierce. As I watched the moon rocket through all that sky I realized that this moon was my moon, our moon, and the moon of every human being that has ever lived. Every person, every living thing in possession of at least one good eye has looked upon that object at one time or another.
And it looked the same way to them as it does to us. And it has worn the same path every night of every day that calamity has struck or enlightenment has been attained in the only world we really know. When the first ferris wheel stopped the show at the Chicago World’s Fair, in the miserable trenches of the Great War, when Louis XIV rendezvous’ed with his mistresses in the gardens of Fontainebleau, when the Aztecs had never heard of Spain or smallpox, when Leonardo da Vinci was burning the midnight wax and envisioning the future, the minute that Rome ceased to be a republic, when the pyramids of Egypt were being built by a superior race of alien beings, when the first Neanderthal felt a little sumpin sumpin for his homo (not in the gay sense) neighbor, and when our ancestors slept in trees and had plenty of time to look at the moon and wonder what it would taste like if they could just jump that high. Dinosaurs hunted and slept by moonlight. The moon reflected off the waves of the ocean way before anything crawled out onto the shore. I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point.
In conclusion, the moon is all right. Five minutes of witnessing our humble satellite’s luminous velocity beats staring at the most exotic celestial body on a computer screen, and that’s any day of the week, bitchez. So slow down. Open the blinds. Grab your woobie and be transported.

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