A Horrible Case of Mistaken Identity
Posted on September 19, 2012
I learned something this morning. Pluto is no longer considered a planet. A committee of scientists got together and said, “Nope, you’re a dwarf. Not a planet, Pluto.” Turns out, a planet needs three things to be considered a planet. 1. It needs to orbit its sun. 2. It needs to be a sphere. 3. It needs to clean its room.
Let’s discuss number 3. Basically, there’s other shite lying around within the orbit of Pluto. This won’t do. A normal planet would suck all of this stuff out of its orbit due to its enormous gravitational force, but not Pluto. No, Pluto is like a hard case on Hoarders.
“Throw your shit out, Pluto. It will heal you,” said the expert.
“No,” cried Pluto. “I may need those. I may need a case of disposable forks and knives. And what if all of my pillow cases go missing at the laundry? Then surely I will need those 2 dozen more to make up for them!”
“This is the problem, Pluto. You never throw anything away,” said the guy with the degree in crazy.
“But, I may need them. I mean, if you throw out a wishbone, doesn’t that mean your wish won’t come true?”
“You can hold it for a time, maybe. But, Pluto, some of these wishbones date from before the conventional oven.”
“I know! They are antiques. You can’t throw out antiques!”
“Pluto, if you don’t throw something out, we’re going to have to declare you…no longer a planet.”
“Fine, declare it! To hell if I care!”
“Okay, you’re no longer a planet.”
An official announcement was made in the way all official announcements are made, by placing a blurb in the paper. The blurb read as follows:
Pluto is not what we thought he was. He is a dwarf instead. Therefore, you should no longer call Pluto, Pluto because Pluto is dead.
No one took the news too hard…except for…except for Miss M. She read the headline as she flipped through her trashiest magazine while getting her knob-foot polished.
“Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear,” said Miss M. She paid the knob polisher and texted Mickey on his phone at once.
Mickey arrived and she gave him the news. He took it well considering and immediately told his dear friend who had been waiting patiently for him in the car.
“But, if I’m no longer Pluto, well, then just who in the feck am I?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” said the old Mick.
This annoyed the dog who was once Pluto. The most troubling day of my life and that’s your answer for me? I’m not sure? He thought. Well, I’m not sure I like that same outfit you wear everyday. I mean those red shorts with the big buttons? Gay. And those pompous white gloves? Who do you think you are…a butler? No. You’re a feckin’ mouse.
As if sensing his thoughts, Mickey squinted his eyes and said, “I wear these gloves because I have scleroderma. I’m missing a thumb and forefinger. And maybe…just maybe, I don’t want to scare the feckin’ kids!!”
Pluto licked Mickey’s yellow shoes, as if to say, “I didn’t mean it, old buddy. I’m just upset.”
Mickey laid a gloved hand around the dog who was once Pluto and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll always be Pluto to me.”
A breeze whistled around the pair. A small thump of a something fell in front of them. It took a second to register. It was a small bird. A small yellow, bird. It wasn’t dead. Instead, it looked drunk or as if it had been bonked on the head.
A child walked by and whispered a, “hello.” There was a name attached to that hello. It took a second for the proper name to lodge itself in their hearts. Once it did, there was no turning back.
“Oh, dear god…,” said Mickey.
“Why? Oh, why? I don’t like prematurely balding young boys! Damn it! Why, Christ? Why?”
For they both knew the drunk, yellow, bird could only mean one thing…
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