Oh, Mars, we just weren't meant to be

Well, readers, I have some sad news. Sad for the nation, and, more importantly, sad for me.
No, the "King of Queens" didn't die (thank God) -- I was rejected from a very important career opportunity.
I had been keeping it on the DL, as they say, not wanting to jinx it, or make anyone jealous, but last fall I sent in an application to NASA.
It has always been a dream of mine to see the other planets -- up close, of course; telescopes are pathetic, and for patheric people. When the Captian of our Great Nation started talking about sending men to Mars last year, I thought "Hey, I'm a man, and I've always wanted to touch Mars," so I jumped on the opportunity. I spent the next six months doing sit-ups (30 a day, every day!) and prepared the perfect letter of application to NASA. I even sprayed it with my favorite perfume before I sent it off.
Since then I have been essentially banking on the fact that I would be spending 2008 on the Red Planet. I went so far as to spend all my savings on groceries (I figured $1200 dollars of bread would keep me going until the launch date, but most of it has gone bad already).
You can imagine, then, how crushed I was to receive a letter of rejection yesterday. It wasn't even a letter of rejection so much as a letter of confusion -- they acted as if my original letter were entirely misguided, which I found to be insulting.
After reading the letter, I drove straight to my parents' house, as I always do in these situations. I attempted to explain to them what had happened, to cries of "Not Mars!" and "What's NASA?", before passing out on the floor from stress, and, of course, sadness.

I was awoken this morning by my mother, singing a song that, as far as I could tell, contained only the lyrics "Oh happy day! Oh haaaappy Day-ay-aaaay!" She then started vacuuming the floor, which posed something of a problem for me, because that's where I was.
The new day, unfortunately, did not immediately bring relief from my disappointment. I just couldn't understand it. I thought I was the ideal asstronaut candidate. The only thing I can figure is that they didn't want to gamble on a statement I made in my application regarding the fact that I might have Rabies. I stress "might" here, although I can imagine the trouble a mad (read: Rabid) man might cause locked up in a space shuttle with several other asstronauts. It doesn't make me feel much better about it, though.

Still, I have to try and keep up a positive frame of mind. I have always been a follower of the philosophy "When one door closes, another opens." This, of course, makes no literal sense, but I expect that has to do with its source: our greatest down's syndrome-suffering First Lady, "Lady Bird" Johnson.
So the NASA door shuts. BANG!
Another door opens. BANG!

That's right -- I'm buying a gun.

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