Mrs Supermoon

Doreen’s expectations for the pink Supermoon were sky high, so she loaded up the “didn’t pull out-mobile” and drove her family to the Rockingham Foreshore. They roamed the fertile grounds looking for a spot amongst the herds of Supermooners who made the area look like the land that Colgate forgot.

Once settled, Doreen began fanning the fire of her family’s inevitable disappointment, “read on the news it’s a PINK Supermoon“. Doreen’s hubby, Trev, interjects, “I remember when I first saw your pink supermoon, sugarnorks“. She blushes as the children recoil in horror.

Doreen continues, “it’s meant to be a reallllly rare Supermoon, we’re in for a treat“. Trev tightens his crossed arms and scoffed, “nah it’ll be fuckall, I saw a moon bigger than the sun up North ay”. You know what they say, there is nothing bigger than an oil rig moon.

At around 1830 the Supermoon exposed itself and shocked the foreshore like it was Bert Newton’s head flashing out of a cheap trench coat. People desperately took photos but it was undeniable, the pink Supermoon wasn’t pink. It was merely slightly bigger, slightly shinier, like an astro-cold sore with luna-Carmex smeared on thick.

Murmurs rip through the grassed area, ‘that’s not pink“. It seems no one bothered to read past a headline to learn that “pink” was actually just a name for the astrological phenomenon and surprisingly didn’t relate to the colour that the moon would appear to the eye.

In fact, the only people not calling the Supermoon a lying sack of orbiting-shit is a couple of mungbeans giving their crystals a good ol’ charge while taking in the cosmic power of this celestial letdown.

Doreen is outraged, but she doesn’t really know who to blame. Accordingly, she just throws her anger shit at the social media wall and sees what sticks.

“FAR OUT! $30 on fuel, $80 on fish & chips all for what!? Irresponsible media reporting it as eing a PINK Supermoon, shouldve just stayed at home and not botherd!!! Sersiouly Perth, why can’t we hav gud family entertainment!!! Now my kids are refusin to go to bed GRRR”.

Her baffling complaint gains traction as it orbits pointlessly in the outrag-a-verse. Countless families feeling aggrieved by the lack of pinkness in this pink Supermoon validate her anger with a like.

Doreen is feeling born anew in purpose and takes her fight to the highest Court in the land: A Current Affair. She drafts an extraordinarily angry email in the hope of getting some vouchers to the next Supermoon or whatever it is people that reach out to ACA get.

Doreen doesn’t feel like she’s made her point yet and muses to Trev, who is scraping a cockroach he just crushed off the bare soul of his foot, “can’t trust science can ya, tell ya what, makes you wonder what else they are lying about, do you actually KNOW anyone with COVID?”

Trev looks up, “just like I told that girl at Woolies darl, ask my to wear a muzzle again and I’ll headbutt ya through that farken wall“. It’s not the full moon driving Doreen crazy, it’s her man’s staunchness now – what a hunk.

Trev finishes the night by running rings around Doreen’s gaseous planetary booty in a scene that will stop aliens wanting to contact us for at least another millennia.

Documenting the Human Zoo is thirsty work, so if you enjoyed what you read how about buying Belle a beer, ay?