Shoot the Moon

Were I Master of the Universe, Homo sapiens would be quarantined to their home planet with a traveling ceiling of 29,000’ above the surface. 

A precedent does exist for my conjuring that grandiose title. Several times in my teaching career, students brought up the notion of my candidacy for public office—the 2000 run for the presidency even produced a campaign poster.

Of course, I was then and still remain imminently unelectable—proudly so, I would add. However, I glommed onto the M of U role, offering, threatening, to straighten up some things within two weeks. 

No doubt former students, former colleagues, former administrators, friends, and family cringe at the thought. Okay, everyone I’ve ever known, fair enough.

Perhaps some savvy reader notes the ceiling I would impose is well below commercial flight paths. Well, that’s too damn bad.

Adventurous types might start whining about Everest’s summit being just 29' above the forbidden zone.

Well, that’s too damn bad, too.

In the greater cosmic scheme, Earthlings, y’all are grounded. No orbital flights, no satellites, no rockets, no space probes, no return missions, nada.

It’s all CGI now, kiddos.

But breathe freely again, of course I will not be, have never been, the once and future Master of the Universe.

Okay, fine. Then how about this gambit. I’ve got dibs on shipping all our garbage to the moon. Yep, all gazillion gazillion tons of the plastic, the glass, the metals, the clothing, the paper, shoes, broken toys, books—sadly, books—cars, cans, cast iron skillets. Radioactive material! Our refuse, our rubbish, the flotsam and jetsam our civilization generates.

Just payloads propelled by mighty rockets and gone. No permits, no property rights, no borders, just crash land the whole thing Anywhere Moon. Craters to contain our crap for time immemorial.

Harvest Moon, Blood Moon, Crow Moon?

Garbage Moon.