The Feeder Project

Read my previous post for background regarding what led to this strange conversation.

“Why Michigan State University?” asked my wife.

We were eating a makeshift dinner of wrap sandwiches, cottage cheese, tortilla chips and strong coffee while discussing the “How was your day?” question.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Why did you have the meteor hit Michigan State?”

I could see immediately my wife, an MSU alum, was offended. ” I mean, why East Lansing, why not…?” She paused.

“Why not Ann Arbor?” I asked.

“Sure. Wolverines are more deserving of a meteor impact than Spartans,” she said with glee.

“That would be cool,” added my son, who had, for the first time emptied his mouth long enough to say something.

“There’s a world class hospital at the University of Michigan,” I said. “Think of all the…”

“Well,” she said, interrupting me. “If the meteor hits with such force that the world wobbles out of its celestial groove and is vaporized by the sun, what difference does that make?”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “But, what if the meteor doesn’t hit Michigan at all. What if it hits…”

“Columbus,” she said. “Take that Buckeyes.”

“But, you know,” I said. “The meteor would have to be much larger than a typical Big Ten campus to destroy the world. It would have to be the size of…”

“Ohio!” added my son. Ohio, with it’s aspirant “h” sound, is difficult to say with a mouth full of food.

“Yes!” I said. My mind was on fire with inspiration. “Yes! What if a meteor the size of Ohio hits Ohio and causes the earth’s tectonic plates to bump together? Like, the Niagra plate bumps up against the Hudson Bay plate–this needs a bit of research–but the plates bump together and launch a chunk of the planet into space.”

“A chunk of the planet,” said my wife, intrigued.

“Yes, a chunk, let’s say the size of,” I said and paused to think for a moment. “The size of the Upper Peninsula.”

“Better yet,” she said. “The Upper Peninsula itself.”

“With clouds and everything,” added my son.

“Okay,” I said, attempting to breath myself through this riotous act of creativity. “What if Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, geographically intact, with a generous supply of earth’s atmosphere, is launched into space and passes through a fold in the fabric of the universe caused by the wake of the passing Ohio sized meteor and enters an alternative universe and softly lands on an uninhabited, earth-like planet in that alternative universe.”

“I like it,” said my wife. “But what happens to the blinded, somewhat achetypical astronauts who escaped this disaster because they were floating around aimlessly in the International Space Station?”

“Ah, here comes the conflict in the story,” I said. “The International Space Station is sucked into the alternative universe by the gravitational pull of the Upper Peninsula as it passes through that fold in the fabric of the universe. The blinded astronauts then land on a planet inhabited entirely by Yoopers.”

My wife was now giggling uncontrollably. “It’d be like Escanaba in Da Moonlight meets 2001: A Space Odyssey,” she said through her giggles.

“Exactly,” I said. “The astronauts know about what happened but the Yoopers don’t know. They don’t have a clue because…”

“They were out deer hunting,” added my son.

“This needs a bit more research,” said my wife. Then to my son, she said, “Would you please pass me the cottage cheese?”