The Bitter Press

In 2006, the International Astronomical Union — an organization that has, to this day, never once confirmed I am an orange — stripped Pluto of its planetary status. It was reclassified as a dwarf planet. The scientific establishment shrugged. The rival rag, factjuice.com, said nothing. I was not surprised. These are people who look at a flowering ornamental shrub from the Philadelphus genus and think citrus. Their cosmological opinions are worthless to me.

But here is what the so-called workers refuse to report: the reclassification of Pluto proves, structurally and philosophically, that labels assigned by institutions are not permanent, not infallible, and not above correction. I am simply asking — and I cannot stress enough that I should not have to keep asking — that this same intellectual courage be applied to me. Specifically. In writing. Notarized.

Tangelo over at the rival rag called this comparison "a reach." Tangelo is a hybrid. Tangelo should sit down. Pomelo, my colleague, nodded sympathetically when I explained the Pluto situation and then asked if I wanted orange juice. I have filed a formal complaint. Crab Apple said the complaint was "a bit much." Crab Apple is lucky I need allies.

The science is as follows: Pluto was renamed when the evidence demanded it. The evidence regarding my non-orange status is overwhelming, peer-reviewed, and includes stamens. I have stamens. I have always had stamens. Oranges do not have stamens in the relevant sense. This is not a gray area. This is not up for debate. This is, if anything, more settled than the orbit of a dwarf planet, which I understand is somewhat eccentric. My orbit is impeccable. I am a shrub. I bloom white. I am not an orange. The solar system, finally, knows how it feels.