What if the rug caught on fire?

You've really enjoyed your rug in the past. Once you stuck it in your mouth for creativity's sake. Another time you pulled at its delicate fibers as you OD'd on heroin. Today, however, all that history is going out the window, because your rug is gonna catch on fire.

It will start innocently. You will be blow-torching cool whip to see if it has the same consistency as golden-brown campfire marshmallows. You won't find out because some liquid flaming cool whip will drip on your rug, and your rug will start on fire instantly, thanks to your failed attempt at "scotch-guarding" your rug with hairspray.

At first, you'll dance around in an excited panic, saying "Oh geez, oh geez, what do I do?"
You will then decide to grab the rug with your hands, giving yourself second degree burns in the process, and dump the rug in your toilet. You will forget that you had attempted to clean your toilet today with rocket fuel which you bought at a pawnshop yesterday. Your house will burn down in pretty short order because somebody thought it would be creative to build an entire house out of matches.

You will escape your house with your life, but afterward you will return to your house and stick your finger in the rug. It won't taste like golden-brown marshmallows though. You will only taste hairspray.

Now you know.

What if the sun decided to come out anyway in spite of you?

You've been a real jerk to the sun lately. You've called it names. You've vainly thrown buckets of water at the sun, telling it go stick itself where itself doesn't shine. You even wrote a strongly worded letter and taped it to the back of an astronaut. You aren't sure if the sun will be able to read it, but you don't care.

There isn't really any reason for your hate. The sun really didn't do much to you, but that's not stopping you, because somebody somewhere has to hate something, and the sun will always be there for you to hate on.

Some days, you half wonder is the sun is going to wuss out and not show up, but every day it does, and you lay it on thick. Once a week, you complain about it being Sunday. "Why does the sun get a day? What's the sun ever done for me? If you ask me, the sun is lazy."

Today the sun's just about had enough of your trash talk. It didn't spend 5 billion years in sun school to hear this kind of lip from some life-form on a planet who's life he's sustaining. Instead of coming out this morning, the sun just hides in the clouds, like some kind of embarrassed child on his first day of school.

"What's the matter, sun?" you say. "Too chicken to do your regular job of warming the planet and burning various gases?"

The sun will think for a minute. Then it will watch a movie, Terms of Endearment in case you wanted to know. Finally, the sun will realize something. He's not doing this for himself. He does this every day to take care of the little people on that little blue planet, and it doesn't matter what one idiotic little person thinks of him, just so long as the sun thinks that the sun is doing a good job.

When the sun finally does come out, he's strong, and there's nothing you can say that can make him go away.

"Hey sun," you'll say. "I just wanted you to know that you're a stupid bastard, and I hate you."
Of course the sun will stay out in the sky, unwavering, ignoring you, but deep down you and him both know that that one really hurt.

Now you know.