Hey, eclipse gypsies. You are ruining my fun. Before you came along, this was my once-in-a-lifetime, celestial mega-spectacular.
Must. Must. Must achieve full totality.
Whip out ye olde sitar and pluck a spell. Wrap your head around eternity. Weightlessness is imminent. Prepare to fold time and space.
This is the sobering reality. Hot. Sticky. Sweaty. Late August. National mania. Here come the eclipse yahoos. (That's you). I'm out of luck even if I wanted to place an order of six cardboard eclipse glasses for $79.95. All sold out.
Now I have to tell the kids there's not, in fact, any solar eclipse glasses for them on the horizon - at least in time for Monday's first full-on solar eclipse in, like, a billion years. (You might want to check NASA on that before you retweet).
So, get ready for your retina to flame out. A solar pinhole projector? That's my backup? Really? I can barely open a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Now I need NASA's JPL to DYI a cardboard box to open a portal into the universe? No, thanks.
Anyhow, the point is I've been planning this for months. Months. Now you come along at the last minute and whip everyone into a solar-corona panic. Schools are keeping inside, fearing they will stare at the sun. 'Solar Eclipse Frenzy' is trending off the charts. Pets will wander in confusion. Protect you're iPhone!
Traffic wonks are amping up the pressure, warning about highway congestion before, after and during the spacey hookup. Says the U.S. DOT: "Don’t take photographs while driving!" So, tweeting and sharing all good? Doesn't matter. We won't get signals because of the not-yet-realized solar-eclipse bandwidth blackhole on the highways.
For the record, I've been checking for the next big thing in the sky. I'm staking a claim to the not-so-rare conjunction of Venus and Jupiter at 1:05 a.m. Monday, Nov. 13. You're not invited.