6 Things About Space You're Picturing Almost Exactly Wrong

And let's not even discuss Sedna, the moody teenager of the solar system, only showing up for dinner before sulking away to its gloomy bedroom.

If you want to play with the abject terror that is the vastness of our own solar system, here's an interactive scale model. Or, hell, you can just watch these guys build one:

Note that they need the freaking Nevada desert to do so.

Quick: Which way is this comet going?

If you said, "Toward the bottom right of the picture," you are wrong. In fact, if you said anything but, "I have no idea. I am a total dipwad. Please stop asking me things about space," you are also wrong.

We tend to assume the comet is basically a giant galactic hadouken, and its tail follows the main fireball-lookin' bit. But comets are essentially big hunks of ice and stuff, and every other thing we see about them -- the lights, the tail, everything -- is just the sun working its magic.

This is a comet:

At around five astronomical units (one unit = 93 million miles, or Earth's average distance from the sun), the sun starts heating the comet with enough force to sublimate some of the ice straight from solid to gas, and the gas mixes with dust to form a halo around the comet called a coma. The tails (yeah, there are in fact two) grow from this. One of them is the plasma tail of ionized gases, and the other is just plain ol' dust.

The plasma tail forms when solar wind hits the coma and ionizes the gases, making it point directly away from the sun. The dust tail tends to curve toward the comet's orbital path, true, but it also gives in to the sun's radiation pressure (way worse than peer pressure) and steers away from the sun. You would too, if you were a celestial body. The sun is a bit pushy.

From Rick And Morty to Futurama via The Magic School Bus, pop culture presents Pluto as an icy, bluish-gray hunk of crap, not unlike a space version of Antarctica. It's far away from us and the sun, so it must be cold, and cold things are blue, right?

Here's Pluto, courtesy of the New Horizons probe in July 2015:

Look, maybe we failed "colors" in kindergarten, but that's not gray or blue. That's definitely brownish-red. Pluto is basically the same color as Mars, but the reason for its color is much cooler: Pluto got its sick tan thanks to cosmic and sun rays screwing around with the methane on its surface and in its atmosphere. See, there goes the sun again, just roving around the solar system in its celestial Camaro, metaphorically shoving planets into puddles and ruining their Sunday best.

Pluto notwithstanding, which planet in our solar system has the shortest day? What about the longest? Common sense dictates that Mercury, as the smallest, has the shortest day, and Jupiter has the longest. Sadly, as is generally the case when we kick off an entry with a question, common sense can go and liberally suck it.

Jupiter, the largest planet in the game, has a day of just 9.9 Earth hours. If you lived there, you wouldn't even have enough time to marathon the Lord Of The Rings films between the sunrise and sunset. Meanwhile, the roughly Earth-sized Venus rocks a day that lasts a whopping 243 Earth days. And yet Venus' year is only 224.7 Earth days. If you lived on Venus you would have sweet, sweet sunshine for over a year, before being plunged into a year (and then some) of night. Yes, this is an excellent prompt for a Vampires Of Venus screenplay, and no, we're not sure why we're the first to have thought of it.

The rate at which a planet spins is determined during its creation, and it has nothing to do with its size or composition. As a star forms, it creates a spinning-formation disk, around which lumps of matter form planets.

These proto-planets initially spin at the same speed as the disk, but as they interact with other material, their spinning speed increases or decreases until they settle on a safe orbit. From that point on, they spin the speed they did after their last interaction.

Science is slowly getting the hang of the intricacies of the planetary spin, and research indicates that the speed of a planet's rotation has a huge effect on its potential habitability. Presumably because you'd get super nauseated whipping around at Jupiter speeds. Please don't tell us that's not how it works. Our self-esteem just can't take any more hits.

As you can see, Jupiter's Ganymede and Saturn's Titan may be moons, but they could easily steal Mercury's lunch money and give Mars a run for its money. Pluto, on the other hand, pays protection money to half the moons in the solar system, including our own.

Not that every moon even gets a planet to orbit. We know dozens of asteroids with small moons orbiting them. Here's Dactyl, one of the tiniest space things we've bothered to grant a name, and the asteroid it orbits, Ida:

Yes, that minuscule, one-mile dot out to the right is a moon, and it isn't even the smallest one. In January 2015, NASA noticed a tiny, 230-foot moon orbiting the 1,100-foot asteroid BL86. Here's the cutest buddy movie starring two tiny rocks in the unforgiving emptiness of space you'll see all week:

"IT'S A PERFECTLY NORMAL SIZE, THANK YOU VERY MUCH."

The thing about a giant ball of nuclear explosions is that its influence extends well beyond the flaming disc that we see in the sky. The sun's solar wind constantly blows in all directions, spewing plasma and particles into space at supersonic speeds. All that sound and fury does serve a purpose. It keeps the interstellar medium -- the dust and gases from the space between the stars -- at bay, away from our pristine little solar system. The solar wind pushes the interstellar medium away, creating a massive shockwave known as bow shock. The solar wind eventually weakens, slowing enough to hit subsonic speeds, and this boundary is called the termination shock.

That's the blue bubble in the above picture, estimated to be up to 94 astronomic units away (based on Voyager 1's measurements). And it's not the end of the sun's effective range -- merely the beginning of the next phase, called the heliosheath. Here, the solar wind is advancing at more leisurely speeds, a subsonic, compressed, and turbulent thing still capable of pushing the interstellar matter in front of it. Finally, we reach the heliopause, where the solar wind and interstellar matter finally cancel each other out, sit down, and start playing canasta. This marks the outer rim of the sun's heliosphere, and thus our solar system. We are now at least 121 astronomical units away from the sun -- three times farther away than Pluto.

The reason the heliosphere is oval, as well as why the bow shock is a giant wall on the thin side of the heliosheath instead of an all-encompassing tidal wave equidistant around us, is simple: Our solar system is constantly moving. We're essentially a missile that screams through space at 45,000 miles per hour, the sun's constant solar wind bombardment pushing aside interstellar bullshit as we go.

Yep, our whole solar system is basically a giant rampaging muscle car gleefully tearing ass through space, and our sun is a cowcatcher bolted onto the front of that car, flinging everything out of our path with extreme prejudice. And they say astronomy is boring.

"Well, gentlemen, after viewing your new promo, the president has decided
to increase NASA's funding by 8,000 percent."

You should totally follow Stephen Perry on the Twitter. He is very apprentice at doing the tweeting.

It turns out that we have wildly awful perceptions about a lot of things. Like, you know, that velociraptors resembled birds more than lizards or that vikings were pretty good cosmetologists. See that and more in 6 Things From History Everyone Pictures Incorrectly and 5 Scenes From History That Everyone Pictures Incorrectly.

Subscribe to our YouTube channel, and check out If Movie Westerns Were Historically Accurate, and watch other videos you won't see on the site!

Also, follow us on Facebook, because we're all actually crotchety old folks who want you to get off our damn lawn.