Every year on that night I sit outside looking at the moon — wondering if maybe somewhere out there, someone is being raped on the moon, or raped by a moon, or just a good old-fashioned guy named Steve, who had the good sense to take his raping operation to the moon, where cops can’t go yet because flying cop cars is a silly thought, and they would use too much fuel to justify their existence. Good for you, Steve. Rape ’em good, boy. Rape ’em for me.