Everything I need to know in life, I learned on Sesame Street. Including the fact that I don’t want to live on the moon.
It’s not that I have anything against the Great Nightlight in the Sky. I appreciate a huge harvest moon as much as I appreciate a huge piece of pumpkin pie. It's the flying-there part I don't like.
I don't have good luck when there are clouds beneath me.
My trip home from Tokyo was a thirteen-hour roller coaster, made even more turbulent due to The Flintstones movie playing in the background. I cluched that Sick Sack and prayed I wouldn’t have to use it. Or the oxygen mask. Or the floating seat cushions.
My trip to Mexico was in a tin can. It rattled and shuddered and dripped mysterious liquid down the walls the entire way to Puerto Vallarta.
My trip to Chicago was a doozy. The pilot said we would experience some turbulence because there was an engine problem and he needed to reduce our altitude. The cabin lost pressure, and we breathed hot, stale air while bouncing catawampus in our seats before the plane made an emergency landing in Indiana.
The janitor never could clean off those kiss marks I left all over the ground there.
The hullabaloo on the street is that if Newt becomes president, the US might form a new state. On the moon. Far from Indiana. And Oxygen.
But you wouldn't need to worry about emergency landings in Indiana if you bought a sleek Lamborghini spacecraft. You'd have eight hours of smooth sailing all the way to the moon. Since my budget doesn't stretch far enough to fit a Lamborghini spacecraft in it, I’d end up in a clunky 1970 Gremlin Rocket. It would be a five day fight-fest for the kids. Ten days, if we have to pull over and add a little more coolant to the radiator.
If Newt becomes president, we’ll all have the chance to take a two-hundred thousand mile trip through space, and relocate to the beautiful suburbs of the moon. And if we build it, Walmart, McDonald's, and Home Depot will come. There will be swimming pools and movie stars. It will be just like home.
We’ll pack our kids into the mini-rocket, along with umbrellas, bug spray, and moon-juice boxes, and then we’ll rush to soccer practice. Being a Soccer Mom won’t be quite as time-consuming on the moon, because the ball will float off into oblivion after the first kick, and everyone will head home again.
If Newt becomes president, his plan will be dandy. Except for the whole part about being in a rocket ship for five days. Far from Indiana. And oxygen. And gravity.
I think I’ll stay here in my home town. Which is on the ground. Far from a rocket.