Chicago, 4 August 2017. 11.50pm
Darrius and Precious had been an item for over two months now. A hopeless romantic, Precious couldn’t resist wondering whether, finally, Darrius was The One. Unlike some of her previous boyfriends, her five kids (born to four different fathers) all seemed to adore Darrius. It didn’t hurt that he regularly showered them all with gifts. Gold watches, bracelets, and necklaces for her, and KFC buckets of chicken wings for the children. Darrius never told her where the money came from, and Precious didn’t want to ask. She’d found out the hard way before that asking questions is an idiot’s game. I’m not going to spoil things this time, she thought, absently drawing a finger across an old scar on her cheek.
Tonight was supposed to have been their special Friday night alone. The kids were tucked up in bed, having been given triple doses of antihistamines to aid their sleep. It was when she was in the kitchen pouring Darrius a glass of his favourite Moscato that Precious knew their special Friday night would have to wait another week. After all, a threesome is no fun when Auntie Flo is the extra person. Yes, there was always the ‘back door’ (a proven method of contraception) but Precious wasn’t much into that anymore since the ‘incident’. Still, if Darrius insists…she shivered involuntarily, running another finger along another scar.
As she closed the curtains ruefully, Precious caught a glimpse of a full moon in the night sky. Fucking Moon, she muttered, fully aware of how her menstrual cycle was perfectly aligned with the moon’s own cycle. Not for the first time she wished someone would just blow up that ugly white object.
Woolacombe, Devon, England, 5 August 2017. 4:30pm
For the first time in years, Stanley Armstrong was truly happy. The warm summer sun beat down, making the waves of Woolacombe beach sparkle. He looked at the sea where, some fifty metres out, his only son, Johnny, was learning to surf. Johnny seemed not to have got the hang of things yet given his frequent splashing around and falling off his board.
Stanley put his hand in his pocket to feel the bulge in his wallet. Yep, the money’s still there, he thought, referring to the £300 he had earned from Devon County Council for reporting that old witch who had flouted the hose pipe ban. It was this money which had allowed him this mini break with his son, something his ex-wife was not altogether happy with.
“Johhny’s too young to surf”, she had bleated out of that pathetically thin mouth. “Why not wait until he’s ten?”
All of a sudden, Stanley became aware of shouts around him and people rushing into the sea.
“What is it?” he asked a tall man standing next to him holding binoculars.
“It’s the rip tide”, the man replied. “Always really dangerous around a full moon. That poor surfer over there is being dragged out to sea and there’s nothing anyone can do to help him. For fuck’s sake, you’d expect his parents would have given him a buoyancy aid before sending him out there.”
Stanley never got to spend any more weekends with his son.
Current Day, 5:03pm
When people think of the moon, all too often they recall idealistic Hollywood imagery. A Wonderful Life comes to mind, and the scene when George Baily was trying to woo Mary:
“Just say the word and I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down. Hey. That’s a pretty good idea. I’ll give you the moon, Mary.”
Billions of womyn who suffer from period pain each month wish that George Bailey had done precisely that. Instead, he wasted his time with self-enrichment schemes when he should have been working for the Accredited Banker, Mr. Potter.
The moon is also responsible for the sort of rip tide that emperilled Johnny and kills thousands of others each year.
Amateur astronomers also have cause to curse the moon. Its bright light pollutes the night sky, thereby preventing astronomers from discovering new planets, civilizations and even asteroids which might be heading our way to destroy us all.
The moon is also grossly racist, projecting an unapologetic white light from its white surface.
Nothing good ever came from the earth’s parasite, except perhaps inspiration for the Pink Floyd album title Dark Side Of The Moon.
On balance, we should not be afraid to eliminate the moon with extreme prejudice. We have the kilotons but do we have the collective will?
For the sake of bleeding womyn everywhere, let’s do it.