They unplugged the sun.

And the Three Dumbasses weigh in.

I heard they unplugged the sun.

What do you mean?

What I just said. They unplugged the sun.

Who is they?

Them. The authorities. The media. The experts. The influencers.

They're saying they unplugged the sun?

No they're saying the sun got unplugged.

How? And by whom?

Dunno. Aliens. Angels. Annunaki.

Damn. That sucks. What does that mean for us?

It means we've got eight minutes.

Eight minutes of what?

To do whatever. And then—

Doom.

Yes. Doom.

What are we to do?

More like, Whom are we to do?

Each other?

No.

Why not?

No offense.

None taken. But why not? At this point, why exercise taste?

You have a point.

I do. I have two points.

What's the other point?

Guess.

Oh.

Eight minutes, then?

Yes, More like seven minutes. And then—poof.

Damn. Bummer. We had a good run.

Who's we?

Humanity. America. The middle class. Anaheim.

What to do in the meantime?

More like, Whom to do?

You and that again?

What else is there?

Good point.

My other good—

Stop.

How the hell do you unplug the sun?

On accident, I presume?

Why do you assume that?

Who would do it deliberately? No one wins. No upper hand is to be gained. It'll be total obliteration. A freezing solar system picks no sides.

Do you think the nearest star could kick in? Lend a helping hand? I like to imagine a loving galaxy would thrive on teamwork.

Not likely. Stars don't tend to operate outside their sphere of influence. They're very solipsistic.

Bummer. Not team players at all. Every star for itself.

Maybe they can plug the sun back in.

Who's they?

The authorities and the pundits and the influencers?

No, the aliens, angels, and Annunaki.

Why can't they collaborate? All hands on deck?

That would be ideal.

Indeed. I like our chances in that scenario. The best and the brightest and the eternalist. Working in tandem.

It's a tall feat. Unlike you, I don't like our chances. How to plug the sun back in? It's far off.

I don't think you've kept up on modern rocketry.

Fine. But what about the suits?

No need. The sun's off. There's nothing to burn them.

But what about when the sun gets plugged back in? They'll be burnt to a crisp.

Mylar is a miracle fabric.

They won't use Mylar for their suits. It only looks space-worthy. They'll use a heat-resistant polymer. Like a Thermos body condom.

But what about the electricity once it's plugged back in?

They'll definitely have to be grounded.

Grounded? To what?

Earth. Here. Home.

That's a long way off.

I don't think you've kept up on insulation tech.

That's a thing?

Of course. It's an industry. With its own Reddit forums, magazines, podcasts, and groupies.

Insulation groupies?

Yeah, man. Asbestos babes, HVAC hotties, Nomex nymphs.

Enough.

Sorry. Six minutes left. There’s still time.

So, if you think it's an accident, how do you think it happened?

My smart-watch just said that they think it was a comet.

A comet? Like the one belonging to that Haley dude?

Yes. A rogue ball of ice streaking across the field of space, spoiling the fun of the sport's spectators for two or three laughs.

Douchey-ass comets. Can't make it as planets, can't hack it as moons, so they panhandle about the solar system, looking for attention and handouts.

I don't think a comet can unplug the sun. There’s a size discrepancy.

Comets are no joke. Also, you must realize the sun isn't what it used to be.

I've been thinking for some time that it seems a little off. Like, I've had to up my Vitamin D3 intake. And still, leaky-gut syndrome.

That sounds painful.

It's not. Trust me. It just means your nutrient absorption is terrible.

Well, in five minutes none of that won't matter. Your gut will be chitlins for frost giants.

Let's go looting. Everyone else is.

That's not true at all. Everyone is remarkably well-behaved. The newscasters are still doing their jobs, and stalwartly, I might add.

They should be looting. Everyone should be looting. I personally would like to rob a bank. With a bow and arrow. “Give me all the money. Or else—”

What would you do with all that money?

But lottery tickets. Scratchers too. I kill it at the scratchers. I have them figured out. They feed the good ones for the first few days to get the buying public to bite, then they issue forth duds. Genius.

Who?

Who what?

Genius who? The scratcher manufacturers or you?

Both. Ours is a symbiotic relationship.

Like us and the sun. Four minutes.

Not symbiotic at all. We need the sun, whereas it does not need us.

Yes, it does. It needs us to acknowledge it. Without us, no one is around to witness it.

Maybe it shines to impress other stars. Maybe it issues forth light as a mating call, looking to procreate black holes.

You raise a good point. Maybe the sun unplugged itself. Maybe this is its way of sitting in its room, listening to Goth rock, slitting its wrists and writing a love pact with its own blood. Sullen sun. Everybody loves and everybody hurts. Maybe the sun needs a break. It's been going nonstop for some time.

No wonder Akhenaten worshipped it. The first monotheist spurned the old Egyptian pantheon to praise Ra, the sun disk. He was right about his intentions, but wrong about the shape.

Cut him some slack. He married the cutest girl in history. Nefertiti.

Maybe this blotting out of the sun is the old gods exacting their vengeance.

Those old gods have bad timing. Why should we suffer for Akhy’s transgressions? Three minutes.

Maybe we can propitiate it into coming back on.

Don't you get it? It can't plug itself back in. It needs an outside agent for that to happen.

Or maybe it needs a new fuse. Those don't last forever. I keep a variety pack in my glove compartment just in case.

Good thinking. Sad to think the regulators of the solar system couldn't do the same. They have all the space in the Van Allen Belt to store stuff and not a single solar fuse. Amateur night.

Hard to run a solar system without a backup plan.

Maybe the sun can undergo a hard reboot. Or be refreshed with a download from the cloud storage. Don't tell me they didn't think about backing up the sun. It's kind of important. What could be more important? Your gender-reveal party? Come on, son.

Two minutes and still no workable plan. I'm beginning to think there's no more hope.

What if it's all a giant cosmic tease? What if the sun will come back on at the last minute and issue forth a Morse code message with solar flares, saying, “Psych!”

The sun doesn't have much of a history as the joker. Like all stars, it's pretty self-important and morose.

Come to think of it, maybe the sun feels taken for granted. How would you feel if you gave life to everything millions of miles around you and no one tweeted about how awesome you were? Instead, people who wouldn't last a microsecond without you get all the praise and attention. Maybe the sun is throwing a hissy fit.

I'm not convinced. It's on schedule to become a supergiant a few million years from now. Dicking around by turning off for a while would set it back. I'm sure it would get reprimanded by whatever galactic council holds heavenly bodies to high standards.

Planets are allowed to misbehave every now and then. Why not stars? Just consider the ice age. If Venus spurned you, you'd go cold at your poles, wouldn't you?

Stop giving the sun the benefit of the doubt. It's shirking its duty. It has a minute to go to save face. If it doesn't turn back on, them it loses all credibility.

Again, an outside agent needs to fix this. As powerful as the sun is, it needs help.

I propose we do something.

We?

Yes, we.

Us?

Yes, us.

What do you propose we do?

I don't know. Worship it. That's a start.

Sort of like a pep talk? “Hey, buddy. We know times are tough. Everyone goes through rough patches. We just want to remind you that you're the big cheese around here. Without you, nothing ain't nothing.”

I think we should be grammatically correct. I don't think the sun would understand street talk. Besides, too informal.

So what should we say to it?

Maybe something in Latin.

Sol.

Yes. Sol.

“O Sole mio.”

No. Definitely not that.

That's as sun-worshippy as you're gonna get. I say we go with it.

No, because it denotes possessiveness. The last thing a celestial entity wants is to be considered subordinate to a dipsomanic crooner.

But calling the sun mine is a term of endearment. It's meant to convey its indispensability.

I say we stick with the Latin. Italian’s too, I don't know, flippant.

Fine. So what's the line we sing?

Not sing. Chant.

Fine. So what's the line we chant? This is great. It's like giving the sun CPR.

I propose me chant this: “Lux—”