DEAR DR. BARNEEZLES:
My daughter is engaged to an astronomer. I don't really understand what an astronomer does, but I've never* had the nerve to ask. Can you shed any light?

*ever

A: If I shed light, the astronomer won't be able to see what he's looking at. This notwithstanding, I will try to answer your question. Pardon me a moment while I consult my notes. [A, C, E, G-sharp . . . yep, they're all here on the keyboard where they belong.]

The job of the astronomer is to show us that various inconceivably distant and consequently, from our vantage point, inconceivably tiny objects would be inconceivably large if, by travelling for an inconceivably long time (which of course we can't), we arrived where they are -- or rather where they would be if they were still there, which they wouldn't be. These scientists continue to bend every effort to address the pressing question of whether a universe which is infinitely large is more or less infinitely large than it was when it came into existence. If you're interested (and even if you're not), you can find much more information on this complex subject by pestering the clerk in the gift shop of your local planetarium.

(Literary humorist Jonathan Caws-Elwitt's plays, stories, essays, letters, parodies, wordplay, witticisms and miscellaneous tomfoolery can be found at Monkeys 1, Typewriters 0.  Here you'll encounter frivolous, urbane writings about symbolic yams, pigs in bikinis, donut costumes, vacationing pikas, nonexistent movies, cross-continental peppermills, and other compelling subjects.)