Up Most of the Night (Burnham's Cruel Fate)

That’s right. About 2:30AM, just a while ago, I woke up. I woke up in a sweat, barely able to breathe, also farting like a pack mule. Nor could I go back to sleep. No matter how I tossed and turned the various annoyances or distractions persisted. I tossed and turned, sweated, coughed and farted. Fuck this shit, Crumby, you need to arise. The Ample Bosoms have cast you off.

Off I headed through the dusty hallways vowing to eschew shrimp forever. Those shrimp taste like erasers anyway, Crumby reminded himself. Yes. Crumby theorized that the shrimp whoredoerves was the mastermind behind his current difficulties. How the hell do I actually spell whoredoerves?, Crumby wondered.

Often, in these, up most of the night, situations, Crumby turns to the Celestial Handbook for distraction. The famous Burnham’s Celestial Handbook that is. Nowhere else maybe, except in the Celestial Handbook, could one easily find a reference to the Milky Way as Caer Gwydyon (sic). Or to put the situation in perspective, Gwydion has a castle in the Milky Way. Yet I have confirmed Burnham’s reference to Gwydyon on two internet sites that supposedly specialize in Welsh mythology.

But then I remembered. Some hearsay regarding the extraordinary Burnham came to my ears only recently. I said to myself, Crumby, you need to find some biographical information on Burnham. So that is what Crumby did.

Mercy! Poor Burnham. Oh well. Paraphrasing H.L. Mencken, Who should expect to earn a living from a hobby?

Turns out, shortly after Burnham published the Celestial Handbook, Lowell Observatory laid Burnham off. Yepper, they ran out of funds for Burnham’s project and laid him off. Burnham was too high-hat by then to take a proffered janitorial position. Instead, Burnham wandered off to San Diego, which in those days had a forgiving climate. Mercy! Failing as a vender of cat paintings, Burnham died a pauper’s wretched death

Burnham’s sad story is well-known among average amateur astronomers. The big hearted average amateur astronomers have, by now, worked up a Burnham Memorial at Lowell Observatory. Praise the Goddess.

Yet I, Crumby, was entirely ignorant of any of these facts concerning Burnham until a couple of hours ago.

Crumby reflected uneasily. Uh oh. My trajectory seems a little too similar to Burnham’s . Yikes! I formerly got paid to do science. But alas, boo-hoo, everyone conspired against me due to my lousy personality and contrary opinions. Now I don’t have a job or jobs. Boo-hoo. Anon, I may wind up selling cat pictures in the park. But I can’t even paint. Boo-hoo. I shall have to sell photographs of the miserable cats instead of paintings. Boo-hoo.

Say mister, want to buy a color photo glossy of my pussy, Bernice? Good Goddess. How horrible would that be? No one shall ever purchase any pictures of my pussy whether that pussy is Bernice or Herman. I shall expire in poverty just like Burnham, a few cat or pussy glossies that nobody wanted clutched in my bony dead fingers.

Calm down Crumby. You need to calm down before you exacerbate your allergic condition even more. Think, Crumby, think. OK. Many may understand that Burnham never married. If Burnham had married, his chance of avoiding certain death in San Diego would have gone up 110%. I, Crumby, have married twice. So my chance of avoiding a similar fate is 220%. Praise the Goddess!