Klingon

In an ill-conceived dystopic future, there is an old star, on its deathbed, surrounded by well-wishers and asteroids. In the most inappropriate of moments, it belches. The atmosphere is filled with a smell so pungent and damp that your nostrils would have wished they never came to exist had they been subjected to it.

'Why does this always have to be serious ?' asks a cat perched on the arcs of a moon, eyes pointing towards the dying star. 'Why can't you people here have some sense of humor? It doesn't matter if you come across as weird. Weird is original. The least you could do to save the rest of astronomity is to lose all that hypocrisy and tell that fucking star what it did just now is gross! Why do you people stand before it all sombre, with bowed heads? Can't you see it's going to die anyway. You won't be hurting the sad bloke since he won't come to exist in a few minutes' 

The moon that provides habitation to this insensitive race is greatly affected by the little parasite's squirm-worthy assertions. It tries to shrug it off its imaginary shoulders. The cat clings on a piece of earth with its claws. 

'The audacity of your breed amazes me. You nest here, on my ... .  .

This bad piece of squished-together-words is interrupted by a bloating need of its conceiver to consume sequential images of bare naked ladies gagging on harpoons and the sort. This entire piece of shit reminds him of a book he had recently read and vindicates his assumption that had he also set out to write science-fiction it would be as badly written as the book. Toke.