The moon sat in judgment of me. Or, rather, it floated in judgment of me. I guess it’d be more accurate to say it revolved around the Earth in judgment of me. I don’t know, I’m not an astronomer, but I know when I’m being judged. And the moon was judging me. There was no doubt about it. It was staring me in the eye like a big pizza pie. Judging.
Okay, fine. Maybe I shouldn’t have spread all those rumors about you, moon! No, I don’t believe you’re actually made of the blood, sweat and whey of innocent cheeses. No, I don’t believe you mess with the tides when you see smug people on their yachts, or that you tap our phone lines and replay particularly embarrassing conversations with ex-girlfriends back for the other planets. I just say these things because you frighten me, quite frankly. And everyone else has jumped on your lunar bandwagon, it seems. I’m the only Anti-Moon guy I know.
I’m only human, though. What’s your excuse? You’re a humongous rock in the sky that only comes out at night. What’s that about, anyway? You a vampire up there, moon? You’re so cold and distant, like a killer robot or a psychotic vice-principal. So, why should I not be afraid of you? Why should I not conduct a smear campaign against you? At least the sun provides Vitamin D. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear you supplied Vitamin P, for poison.
Okay, fine, I’ll stop being so paranoid. You’re just a harmless hunk of rock, and that’s nothing to be afraid of. And I’ll stop with the rumors, if you really can’t handle a little bad publicity.
Just stop looking at me like that!
Cotton Candy Beard 