The Demanding Soul of Giant Stars

Hallo! That's hello is German, don'tchya know? how awesome possum is that? Pretty possum. When I first wrote that dang-nabbit sentence I somehow wrote "That's German in French." How fucked up is that? Pretty darn messed up. Come to think of it, what is German in French? Have no fear! The translator be here! Allemand. That's a pretty cool sounding word. If I was French, I would take a trip to Germany and say that word like it ain't nobodies business! I present to thee, a dilemma. You are the sun's one and only sunglass buyer. Every time he wants a different sort of type or color or brand, you have to immediately rush out to the nearest sunglass emporium and fetch them for him. Then you have to get in your ultra tinted spaceship that you are forced to rub down with SPF 50 every other day and head on up to the bright little bastards beckon. And on this particular trip he says to ya, he says "Hey *insert your name here* I have decided that sunglass are kind of über lame and I think my new in-thing should be mitten wearing. So throw that old fashioned junk away and go to the damn mitten store, ya hear!" With a lowly sigh of compliance you start walking back to your sun-screen smothered space-ship. A startling fact presents itself in your brain: Don't I have a life-stopping fear of mittens? Don't I throw up from fear every time I go golfing? (Golfers wear gloves, right?) Didn't you lose your right pointer finger last winter in at the South Pole because the thoughts of those hand-shaped cloth fuckers scares you to next March? Yepp, all those things are true.

What the hell are you gonna do in this situation!? Your boss the sun is a gosh darn prick and will force you to anyway. You hate martians, so you can't flee to Mars. What are ya gonna do? Damn those Martians for never using coasters! It'll leaving a fricking mark!

Personally I'd gain alliance with that suave dude The Moon.