Oh, Jupiter, you bloated, gassy piece of cosmic trash. You’re the solar system’s biggest joke, a planet so fat it makes Saturn’s rings look like a hula hoop on a starving supermodel.
You’ve got 95 moons—95!—like some desperate hoarder collecting rocks because no one else wants to hang out with your windy, miserable ass. If the universe had a sense of humor, it would have made you a black hole so you could finally be useful by sucking yourself out of existence.
Jupiter, you’re so ugly and toxic, even your own moons are trying to escape. But they can’t, because your gravity is as clingy as a stalker ex. Maybe it’s time to let go and admit you’re just a big, gassy mistake.
You’re the planet equivalent of a bad tattoo—huge, permanent, and every one regrets looking at you. The only thing worse than your appearance is your personality, which is as empty as your core.
Jupiter, you’re so toxic, even your own atmosphere is trying to kill itself. Those storms? They’re just your planet’s way of screaming for help. It’s been raging for centuries because even your weather’s too pathetic to move on with its life. You’re basically a giant fart that never dissipates, stinking up space with your hydrogen stench. Too bad no one cares enough to listen.
Scientists call you a gas giant, but let’s be real—you’re just the universe’s loudest, most embarrassing queef. No wonder you’re fifth in line from the Sun; even it’s trying to keep its distance from your swirling, overcompensating bullshit. Go suck on an asteroid, you oversized, stripey disgrace.