I had trouble with the title of this post. It wasn’t because Earf Day was like a week ago or whatever. In celebrationology, exact dates are generally unimportant, with the exception of birfdays. Religious dudes are too busy arguing about who the daddy be to figure out what day the Earf was birfed, so nobody knows. Not Scientologists, not Google—
not nobody possibly Magnum, P.I. Mustaches of his stature are said to be signs of all-knowingness, while goatees denote only some-knowingness and soul patches are often connected with fuck-all-knowingness. But this post isn’t about facial hair divination. You will have to buy my imaginary eBook for that. Food stamps accepted.
Wishing happiness to others in celebration of our shared planet on a day during which I threw an estimated 10-gallon trashbag’s worth of recyclable materials straight into a garbage dumpster without a second thought doesn’t make sense and escapes the overall cohesion of my do shit that makes sense lifestyle.
(Check out these italics, emphasizing the hell out of otherwise negligible content.)
Don’t get me wrong. I like Earth—it’s cool, it’s where my house is, and that’s where I keep all of my shit. Without the Earth, the entirety of my belongings would float around in outer space at the mercy of scandalous types such as Daleks, Ferengi, Siths, Reavers, Dalek-ass Siths, Sith-ass Daleks, skeezers, punk bitches, skip-skop skanks and scallywags, players, heifers, he-haws, huly-hu’s and Robin Williams. At least until my Cash4Gold income flow became large and steady enough to get some tractor beams from the Rent-a-Center on 5th and Uranus. Maybe I’d splurge on a white leather couch with built-in washer/dryer combo while there. Two or three oil painting reproduction prints of some bodies of water with flowers and shit, at the very least. This guy knows what pity I’m trying to sine on the runny kine.
At this point, it seems more reasonable to celebrate gravity. Gravity doesn’t make anyone feel bad for razing a forest to make room for a hovering styrofoam mansion elevated by thousands of perpetually-spraying aerosol cans of insecticide which in turn provide fuel for the surrounding moat of ill-gotten KFC sporks heated to melting point. Pro-gravity activists don’t smell like a jockstrap worn by an aborigine for three months straight. Gravity tycoon families aren’t interested in politics. I could go on, but those two mustaches just reminded me that I’m late for a Mothers Against Beardless Cyclops charity walk. Take care of yourself, and each other.