The Best Worst Idea Ever

I remember that afternoon, when the President of the World took to the stage, gripping both sides of the podium set atop a golden skyscraper emblazoned with his name on the front; the doors; the toilet seats as if he were manhandling a belligerent rhinoceros, and took a hit, right there, in front of us and the entire planet, and announced he’s got it all figured out. Then the bloviating yam with the bad hair stood up, face embolism red, wiped his nose super conspicuously, and said he was going to save us all—he was going to increase the length of the day.

“I’ve got all my top guys on this,” he bellowed like a low-rent Bond villain. “From the eggheads at NASA to the very best CEOs this world has to offer. We’re gonna change things. You’ll see—it’ll be great! Just what we need!”

And he outlined his plan, involving the installation of enormous rocket boosters set into the Earth’s crust at intervals, from pole to pole, circling the planet, all firing toward the west.

“We’ll slow it all down!” he shouted. “More time for work. More time for prayer. More time for traditional values!” And he threw his arms up in the air, the fetid tomato, like he was standing atop an aircraft carrier proclaiming victory for a war he neither started nor would finish.

And what about the tides when our rotational velocity changes? people cried out. What about crops? Trees? What about the entire time-keeping industry?

Their fears, however, fell on obtuse ears as new industries started sprouting up like weeds, offering better sleep aids for those lengthy nights, and longer, more effective tanning creams for the extra hours of daylight we would all need to adjust to as time, very slowly, marched on.

And when they lit the fuses and changed the course of history, it was an unprecedented swelter experienced the world over as hundreds of flames, each small suns, erupted out the backs of colossal jet engines fastened to the Earth like metal pins in the spine of not a victim but a lowly bystander sheltering the wrong species at the wrong time. They were so large that from a distance, they resembled alien spacecraft come to ask us what the hell we were thinking, and then to leave again when they realized no answer could possibly satisfy.

I wondered, the day they turned them on one after another—volcanoes firing horizontally like distant cannons, blowing out eardrums world wide—if the rockets might shake loose and skirt the ocean’s surface, following the circumference of the world until they struck land or lost altitude, cracking the planet into something we could never again make whole.

I remember the day the world wasn’t dying fast enough and we decided to do something about it. I remember when the nights were shorter and there was less dark to suffer through, and the light on the other side didn’t seem so insufferably bright.


>>Crap Orgasm, 2016

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