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Show 11! Show 11? Yes, Show 11.
No, it's not! It's Show 10, stupid!
I hear that in a whiny, entitled voice.
No, we combined 9 and 10, remember?
And by the way, you're supposed to spell out numbers zero through nine. 10 and above are actual numbers. Unless they're the first word of a sentence. In which case you also write it out. So 10,789,420.69 written out at the beginning of a sentence is a huge pain in the ass. Like this: Ten million, seven hundred eighty-nine thousand, four hundred twenty point six nine.
See what a pain in the ass that is?
So from now on, numbers are numbers. I'm not spelling them out any more. Numbers are numbers.
Do you guys know why six was afraid of seven? Because seven ate nine. Seven ate Nine. Seven consumed Nine. And Six knows it and maybe even witnessed it. And it was probably a brutal, gory, horrid, horrible thing to watch. Like Bruce eating Robert Shaw in Jaws. Like the tree eating Robby in Poltergeist. Like the pet tiger ripping your face off after you ate the steak with OSAKA seared into the top of it. Like the guy on the toilet in Jurassic Park who got eaten by the T-Rex. Remember that? Talk about a bad day at the office. When that guy woke up that morning, he knew he was going to get on a chopper and fly out to this insane idea of a zoo – see? There's the zoo thing again. When will we learn?
Anyway, that guy had probably been with the company for a while. Several years. At least. And he's probably making low six figures with stock options out the ass. So that morning, he gets up, showers, gets dressed, puts on his shirt and tie, the official uniform of business professionals around the world, and he heads off to the office. And it ain't exactly Dunder Mifflin. And he is told to get in the chopper and come on out to the island. And he knows it's a bad idea. But he goes anyway. And he soon finds himself in a brightly-colored Ford Explorer with a couple of children. And I'm guessing he doesn't have a lot of experience with children. I think he had a lot of experience kissing dudes. Which is totally fine, of course. Just saying he had a bit of an effeminate sensibility. Probably a super-cool guy. Until the ride broke down.
But I wanted to ask: Do you guys wash your eggs?
Do you have eggs up here? Do you have chickens? Can we conjure a chicken? Or just the egg? I guess that negates the chicken and the egg question. Which one comes first depends on which one you conjure. But back on Earth, this is a debate that has been raging for centuries. Raging may be too strong of a word.
See, some people think God, or perhaps Gawd, made the Earth and all the animals. In which case He stroke She stroke They made a chicken. And then the chicken laid an egg.
But some people think the egg must’ve come first and the first chicken came out of it.
But for that to be true, did God stroke Gawd make the egg? And if so, who sat on it until it hatched? Eggs need to be kept warm and safe so the little chicken baby inside can grow up and wake up and peck its way out of the shell and wind up living in a New York City apartment. In the village, apparently. With two guys and a duck. As opposed to three men and a baby.
Is village capitalized in that instance? Do you guys capitalize it? All you lovely, fine people from New York? I grew up in California and only had a chance to visit Manhattan once before they brought me up here.
I would totally live in New York, though. I think it’d be great. When we visited, I loved it. It was cozy. The city felt smaller than I expected. I thought it would be like L.A., a sprawling mass of urban renewal NIMBY this and NIMBY that et cetera et cetera.
But it wasn’t. It was cozy. That’s the best way I can think of to describe it. I’d love to be able to live someplace where I don’t need a car. Cars are great and they’re fun and I’m a car guy. My dad is a car guy, I’m a car guy. But getting in your car and driving an hour to go get groceries and then driving another hour home sucks the big one.
I’m not sure what The Big One is. I know what The Big Apple is. For anyone who may not be aware, The Big Apple is what people on Earth call New York City.
But apparently some people wash their eggs while other people don’t. The way I see it, the egg came out of a chicken. Out of its anus stroke vagina. Chickens have one opening, one orifice, and their pee and poo both come out of that hole. It’s called the cloaca. Phonetically that would be klo-AY-kuh. And the eggs come out of there, too. So if you buy a carton of eggs and they have brown stuff on them, now you know why.
Which is why you should wash them if they have brown stuff on them. Most eggs in the states seem to get washed at the farm. At some point between coming out of the chicken and being put into the cardboard box tray thing, the eggs are washed, dried, and stamped with a date and other information I assume must be for internal use, so they know when the eggs were laid and how long they’ll be good for; how long they’ll be safe to eat.
If there is salmonella, it’s on the outside. So it makes sense to wash them before you crack them.
But apparently some people think washing them is going to spread the salmonella or it will drive the germs into the shell or something.
Anyway…
Welcome to this, our not so humble, very classy abode, the Alien Night Club. All the other alien nightclub owners are all like, Hey, dickwad, you can’t just use that name and call yourself the only one, what about us?
Uh, well, sir, or madame, on Earth you can’t copyright protect a name, only the execution of that name or that idea.
Anyway…
Show 11. The big Show 11.
No, it’s not! It’s Show 10! You can’t just combine shows like that!
Sure we can. We did it. That’s the beauty of the Alien Night Club, we can do whatever we want.
You guys think we should call it the Alien Supper Club? It has an old-timey feel. Midcentury Modern. Of course, that period was still racist so most likely a lot of people are like, No, let’s most definitely NOT call it that. Alien Night Club is good. Alien Night Club is just fine. Move on.
Okay. Moving on.
What else what what else what? Oh, I had another idea for a tee shirt a minute ago but now I forgot. Actually, I have a whole list of ideas. I am keeping a list, by the way. I’m trying to track shirts with shows so we don’t use them more than once. There’s probably going to be some overlap, by the way. Meaning I’ll wear a shirt more than once. Whatever. It’s my shirt and I’ll wear whatever I want. I have agency over what garments I choose to employ to hide my nakedness, for I have eaten of the fruit of the Tree of Life and I know the difference between Good and Evil. Capital G, Capital E.
Sammy? Hit it.
SV: Capital G, Capital motherfuckin E.
Thank you, Sammy. How are you this evening?
SV: Doing just fine. How about yourself?
Doing just fine as well. Happy to be here.
Tonight’s tee shirt is a biohazard symbol crossed out. Like the Ghostbusters logo. For anyone who can’t see it, those of you in the cheap seats, the racist Peanut Gallery where people of limited means sit because they have limited means and they have limited means because of — brace yourself — systemic racism that prevents them from advancing professionally such that they, too, will have means and can therefore afford to buy tickets to sit in the box seats or in the front row or wherever the most expensive seats are.
For those of you who can’t see it, it’s a big red, scary biohazard symbol, which is like a weird, scary triangle shape kind of like Mercedes Benz, except the lines are curved and scary. Did I mention that it’s scary? It has to be scary because it connotes hazardous materials. That you should stay away from. Only this one is crossed out, with a big red circle with a line through it. Which means no biohazard. I don’t feel like litigating the backstory around it so let’s move on. If you have no idea what it means and why I put it on tonight’s shirt, I invite you to go back and watch or re-watch Show 9 stroke 10.
Now, on with Show 11.
Cue Whiney Voice: It’s Show 10, asshole!
Whatever you say.
Except it’s not; it’s Show 11. Show 11? Yes, Show 11.
Do you guys work out? I do. I haven’t really been doing it since I got here, though. I had a pretty sweet little gym set up in my place back home, back on Earth. It was in the garage. I had a squat rack, a pulley system, a pair of adjustable dumbbells, and two sets of Olympic weights with bars and plates and everything. I had mats on the floor. The dumbbells were Chinese knockoffs of Bowflex, by the way, and they were in kilograms. But they worked great. I used them every day. I guess I need to conjure a pair so I can start working out up here.
But if you don’t work out, you really should. Even if you don’t like it. 3 or 4 days a week, you should be in the gym or in the garage or in your guest bedroom that you converted into a home gym, clangin and bangin, as they say. Throwing some iron around, building up your body, testing yourself, making yourself stronger mentally and physically. The mental part is just as important, by the way. Because each time you do a set, you’re a little scared when you start. I don’t know why. I always am. It’s really stupid and there’s nothing to be afraid of. The whole exercise is literally an exercise in failure. Because you should be doing it until you get to the point when you can’t do any more. Either stop at failure or one or two reps shy of failure, or rest for a few seconds and bang out a few more. We call these forced reps. And a lot of people swear by them. All the research seems to indicate that as long as you go to failure or almost to failure, and you make the muscles work, it doesn’t really matter if you do a lot of weight and only a few reps or if you do light weight and a lot of reps. The outcome seems to be the same. Fatigue supposedly increases with higher volume, which would suggest keeping the reps lower and the weight a bit higher. But you should really begin with your goal and work backwards. And then do what others are already doing. Reverse engineer the process. Chicken or egg.
Raise your hand if you like brownies. If you know what brownies are, raise your hand. Unless you don’t have hands. Then raise whatever you’ve got. Because brownies are awesome. That sounds like something Uncle Rick would say: Because, Morty, brownies are awesome. Burrrp!
So, shall we get to show notes?
We’ve got some good stuff today.
Unromantic showers and high-stress jobs.
That’s what we’ve got.
The White Widow told me. She’s always right.
Because…think about it: Do you really want to have sex in a dirty shower?
Do you?
I kinda pretty much don’t. When I am in the shower, showering, bathing, trying to get clean and do everything I need to do before the hot water runs out, I am often NOT enjoying myself. I am in a hurry. I am not strolling. I am kinda hauling ass. Not going as fast as I COULD go, but faster than I would like to. A long, hot shower is one of my very few vices.
Point being that when I’m in there, I’m inspecting it. I am looking around and I see a whole bunch of work that needs to be done. And I am the one who is going to and must do it. Me. It’s my job. And it’s gross!
But what if you got Borged? I’m not sure how to spell it. Borged or Borg’d?
I guess it doesn’t matter.
But imagine you just got assimilated. By The Borg. From Star Trek. Those robotic yet biological hive-mind cyborg creatures with no individual thoughts or feelings.
Do they shower? Or bathe at all? Do they brush their teeth? Imagine they come to attack you and assimilate you and you smell them coming before their green transporter beam appears. They’d haff to be pretty doggone stinky.
But if you were assimilated, I guess congrats on that, as it does have its advantages or its appeal to some people. Hasn’t happened to me, yet. That I know of. But getting assimilated by the Borg is big time. They don’t do that to everyone. There’s a popular misconception that they will assimilate anyone and therefore will eventually assimilate everyone.
No. This is not true. There are groups that they will not touch. Even the fatherhumpin Borg is like, No, we don’t want to have anything to do with you.
There are groups the Borg will not assimilate. Even the Borg have standards. And a lot of humans are not meeting that standard. Think about that. Not necessarily that you want to be assimilated, but perhaps you’d like to at least be worthy of consideration.
Is it a metaphor for Communism?
Communists, do you identify more with the Borg or with Picard? Before you answer, remember that back on Earth in Picard’s time there is no money. Which suggests that Capitalism has been modified or supplanted. And Earth at that time isn’t a dystopian Hellscape. It’s nice. Nice enough that they have the resources to build kick-ass starships.
And Jean Luc Picard was a stud. That’s how he got the job. And it’s why The Borg wanted him. He definitely aided their collective, their pursuit for evolving into perfection. The Borg aren’t running around assimilating meth heads and stray dogs. Which we might say are nearly one and the same. Although it seems like there is more concern for the stray dog than the meth head. Sarah McLachlan never made a sad commercial about the meth heads.
But if you’re lonely like a stray dog, like a meth head, maybe you’d really enjoy being assimilated. It might be the first time in your life that you are finally a part of a family that accepts you 100 percent and has your back literally to the death. A family that will always protect you, and you it.
For people like that, you’re damn right they’d want to be assimilated. Better than feeling lower than a stray dog.
How many humans feel like a stray dog?
But getting back to unromantic showers…
I guess it means we all need to start cleaning our showers.
You know what we should have?
You know how Ferrari is the pinnacle of automotive engineering? There are a lot of amazing car companies making amazing cars. Of all kinds. And Ferrari is the biggest name in the business. Their all-red cars are some of the very best. Undeniably. They’re gorgeous. And yet, for some reason, I have always been a Lamborghini guy. I don’t know why. The only thing I can think of is The Cannonball Run. That’s gotta be the reason. I saw that when I was like 7 or 8. So, yeah: hot chicks in a Lamborghini RACING across the United States in an illegal race. Dude. Sign me up.
We just need a sponsor. To pay for all of it.
How’s this for a sponsorship idea: Ferrari…start making showers.
Lamborghini…start making showers.
Charge between 5 and 10 grand for them. Maybe the entry-level, fewer bells and whistles but still awesome version could be a little bit less. I would finance $3999 to have a supercar shower installed in my house, done, complete, hooked up and ready to rock.
Imagine that, you guys. A supercar shower.
Supercar Blondie can be the spokesperson. Supercar Blondie, are you interested? I think a lot of people would LOVE to watch you test drive supercar showers.
Hoteliers around the world: GET ON THIS.
Someone get on it. Kevin? Mr. O'Leary? This could be right up your alley. A man who values his knives surely values his shower.
As do I. I don’t have any expensive knives at the moment but I enjoy a good shower. And a supercar shower sounds pretty awesome. And it’s a lot more attainable for a lot more people. You would sell more showers than cars, easily. Very quickly that would happen.
I don’t even know what mine would be. Ferrari Red? A shower that feels like I’m in a 458. Which, to me, is one of the most beautiful cars I’ve ever seen. That and the 488. I don’t even know which is which and I don’t care. I love them both equally so the number doesn’t even matter to me.
But to be able to go into the shower every day and experience THAT?
You guys – and I’m speaking to everyone back on Earth primarily – how would you like to have a supercar shower in your home? Instead of fussing over a car that is always getting dirty just by the sheer fact that you have to drive it, you could be putting that kind of time and attention and love into your shower. And it would absolutely 150% improve your sex life.
If you can, call your special someone or turn to them and say:
I love you. It probably doesn’t seem like it because I act like such a dick most of the time. But that’s only because I’m stressed out. It’s not because of you. I love you and I’m glad we’re here together doing what we’re doing. And I don’t like being stressed out. And I know it seems like we’re always on a schedule. And every day is scheduled. And there’s no SEX in the schedule. But I love you very, very much. And I always will. Now get on over here and let’s get naked and go take a long, hot shower in our brand new, pants-creaming supercar shower. It’s the exact same one Supercar Blondie test drove in Italy at that amazing hotel on the Amalfi Coast and I knew that was the one I wanted as soon as I saw it, so let’s get in there and enjoy that long hot shower. And don’t worry: we will also make love in a new and strange and sensual way that neither of us has ever experienced before.
That should help.
Even if you have a regular shower.
Make sure it’s clean.
And then get in there, naked, ready to kiss, ready to make love, ready to do a righteous 69, or even a 70 — that’s when you eat each other’s butts.
Standing up?!
Maybe.
Because happiness is knowing you’re going to have sex. Dinner and a movie can be part of your foreplay. Maybe go see a movie you don’t care about. That way, you don’t need to pay attention to the movie because you’re kissing the whole time. How bonkers would it be to actually do that? To kiss for 2 hours while everyone else in the theater is geeking out over Iron Man’s ghost or something.
By the way, they never should’ve whacked Tony. Shouldn’t have whacked Glenn, shouldn’t have whacked Tony. Not everything has to be Game of Thrones, okay? I watched that series one time. When it was being released. And I never want to watch it again. It’s too brutal. It’s too gory. It’s too fucked up. Life is already so fucked up that it’s very rare that I want to put myself through the experience of watching a show like that. I already have enough adrenaline. I like to do stuff that gets rid of it. Like working out. And taking long, hot showers.
Which leads me to the high-stress jobs.
Because that’s what we have. Everyone’s job is stressing them the fuck out. Because shit is so tenuous and crazy in the world these days that if you lose your job, you may not be able to find another one. Or the new one may not pay the same as the first one. And you can’t go backwards like that. Never take a job where you earn less than you did in the past. Unless it’s some huge career right turn for you and it’s the way it’s gotta be. In that case, you suck it up and go be an intern like Chandler.
Unromantic showers and high-stress jobs. I would put that on a tee shirt except it’s a bad idea. It’s perpetuating bad things. Running around wearing a shirt with bad stuff on it like that is like running around like Johnny Appleseed, spreading seeds of sorrow and despair because every person who reads the phrase Unromantic Showers and High-stress Jobs is having that phrase injected into their mind, their being, like a virus. It’s a mind virus. And it will cause them to think about the shower as being unromantic. And they will then be programmed to look at the shower as unromantic. And for the rest of their life, they will operate under the absolute positivity that having sex in the shower is bad.
And it’s not. Having sex in the shower is awesome. And you should all be doing it if you’re not.
Supercar Blondie, maybe make some calls and sort of take the reigns of launching the supercar shower business. It’s probably a 3%er for me. Maybe a little more, because I so LOVE the idea.
And here’s another idea: Supercar hot tubs and supercar backyard oasis pools.
Both of those are rife for takeover because everything in the segment now is super old-school and is therefore way too expensive. And a buttload of shiny fiberglass, carbon fiber, chrome, glass, and LEDs will create a fortune big enough to actually help Elon pay for making humans an interplanetary species.
Before it’s too late.
Why do you think SpaceX is doing so well and totally leading the global space race right now?
Why is it that SpaceX is the Ferrari of Space?
Hands down.
NASA abdicated. Somewhat willingly, somewhat unwillingly. Obviously. A lot of people involved in that industry count on it for their livelihoods. Change that threatens that livelihood is hard.
Even when it is for the greater good.
Which everybody recognizes when they see it.
I think I want my supercar shower to be a waterproof version of my laptop, which is a gaming rig with per-key LED keyboard lighting.
So imagine your shower being like that. You can make it any color you want. Maybe it’s matte grey. Matte pewter grey. Kind of dark, metallic grey. And you fill it with emerald green light. With some tinges of fluorescent fuschia and vibrant electric purple.
And the SOUND system.
Just like the one in a Tesla.
Elon, maybe this shower thing is your next business. You already have mastered the manufacturing business.
Bravo, by the way. A lot of people have been listening to you speak. You speak the truth. That’s why so many people want to help you. Granted, a lot of them don’t seem as committed as you are and that is a knife through your heart every time because it means one thing – because it only CAN mean one thing – : That they don’t believe you because they’re too scared or they simply are not LISTENING.
Because if they were, your budget would become UN FUCKING LIMITED overnight.
Which is what should happen.
Elon is exactly right, you guys: At some point in time, SOMETHING is going to happen on Earth that will kill everyone living at that time. Hopefully, knock on wood – cue Sammy.
SV: Knock on motherfuckin wood.
I didn’t say motherfuckin. I only said wood.
SV: I know, I added the motherfuckin. Because this is serious shit and we need to have it in there. For emphasis.
Even if the F word turns people off and we’re shooting ourselves in the foot by using that kind of language? And by the way, does it now mean that we can’t say shooting ourselves in the foot because it’s insensitive to people who received an unwelcomed gunshot wound to the foot?
To which you may reply: Is there such thing as a gunshot wound to the foot that is welcomed?
To which I may reply: Have you seen the videos of the guys playing cards on the street and the loser has to shoot themselves in the top of the foot with a gun? A nickel-plated or stainless steel or whatever it is that makes the gun so shiny 357 Magnum. Or maybe it’s a 38.
38, 39…whatever it took.
I don’t know that much about guns. I know the basic calibers and have shot basically all the calibers of handguns but no rifles or anything of that sort. And I’m not anti-gun, per se. I’m anti-stupid. I’m anti-not bothering to teach our youth properly. I can tell you that. I’m anti-what the fuck is going on and why the fuck isn’t anyone doing anything.
I’m anti that.
As I’m sure we all are.
So, if we all feel the same way about an issue, why is it still an issue? Why is no one taking care of it? We have people in that field who want to do that and know how to do it because they went to school for it and took it upon themselves to study it in-depth on their own because they are super fascinated by it. And it’s all they want to do every day. And they can’t believe that it’s their job. That they made a career out of it. That they’re getting paid to do it. So those people’s budgets should be unlimited until the problem is solved.
Same with going to Mars. A self-sustaining city on Mars. Which means that it is a city that can survive completely on its own if the supply ships from Earth stop coming. Ever. For any reason.
And if those ships do stop coming, the people on Mars — the Martians? — will be fine. They will be sad because obviously something bad happened on Earth and those ships are either delayed or they’re not coming ever again because the Earth is fucked.
Like nuclear war or cataclysmic volcano-level fucked.
Like it just got hit by an asteroid fucked.
And Mars is all that’s left. The only humans in the whole Universe are on Mars. And it’s probably only a few thousand.
Time to start breeding.
There had better be some kick-ass, seriously world-class geneticists up there who can pair people up for reproduction.
And guess what people, if you get chosen to mate, to do sex, go do it. No matter how oogie that other person is or how married you are. You can stay married but this is life and death of the species.
This is extinction.
Unless we make a lot of babies. A lot of humans. As fast as possible.
And keep harvesting Martian resources to build more buildings for us to live in and grow more food for us to eat.
How’s that for a new series? Maya Rudolph plays a woman living on Mars after Earth just got slammed by a giant asteroid rock just like in Don’t Look Up and everyone down there is gone or soon will be.
And anyone who survives sure as shit won’t be coming to Mars any time soon. And it’s probably a mathematical certainty that the remainder of the human species on Earth WILL die out. Because there probably won’t be enough of them and even if there are, they won’t be able to get to each other in order to have sex and make more people in the proper way so that the genetic code is spread around sufficiently that you get healthy people and fewer diseases and illnesses manifesting themselves in the population.
Anyway, Maya lives on Mars and kind of hates her life. She was born here, she didn’t choose to come here. And she much would’ve preferred to grow up on Earth, even if it meant dying on it just last week. So now her normally mundane, crappy, boring job – she’s the geneticist – suddenly becomes the single most important job on Mars.
Because the future of the human race is in her hands. Because you can’t have siblings or cousins knocking each other up. It’s not good to mix genetic pairs that are that similar to one another.
And the reason Maya is so pissed is because she never got to visit Earth. She never got to visit the Maldives to spend a week in an over-water villa where she would quite possibly die of happiness. Because that’s her dream: to die of happiness.
Maybe that’s the name of the show.
To Die of Happiness.
Maybe swim in the water in front of your overwater villa and get really high and have the best lunch and a few orgasms and then drop a couple of pills in your pina colada, smoke one last joint, and then go out naked with a smile on your face. And then the next day the asteroid hits. But you don’t have to endure the actual impact. You’re already onto your next life.
But poor Maya is stuck on Mars. Where getting a Pina Colada is impossible.
And everyone hates her because she calls them and tells them they have to go have sex with someone they don’t know.
It’s like jury duty. And the dentist. And the DMV.
All rolled into one.
Imagine there was a person who called you – quite regularly – sometimes once a month – and told you to go have sex with someone you don’t even know.
And you HAD to go.
You HAD to. You KNEW you had to. Because the species was gonna literally die out if you didn’t. So of course you had to. Of course you went and did it every time.
But that didn’t really matter because everyone understood. Especially the people who had COME to Mars FROM Earth rather than be born on Mars. By this point in the story, there may not be that many of them left alive. They’d probably all be in their 70s or 80s. That’s how long it’s going to take to get the Martian colony up and running to the point that it’s self-sustaining. We’re talking about several generations of people. So that’s why we need funding to get through ALL of that.
We need money for like the next 100 years. Probably more.
We need a few trillion a year at this point.
And the whole planet should be working together to accomplish this. Political ideology should be the last thing sewing division between us.
Survival instinct should be enough to bring everyone together.
Like poor Maya is doing up on Mars. Her job is to examine ALL the genomic code for thousands people and find out who should reproduce with whom.
And it’s funnier if they lack the technology on Mars to do this all in vitro. Meaning that the sperm and the egg have to meet the old-fashioned way.
And it’s Maya’s job to make that happen. And everyone hates her because no one listens. Her job is like the guy Phoebe saved from suicide the day she sold toner.
It’s that level of contempt and disinterest. Of course she wants to roofie herself in the Maldives. I would, too. We all would.
Because here’s the thing: before Earth got destroyed, everyone was complacent. The ships from Earth kept coming and they always brought fresh meat. Everyone on Mars always seemed to wind up screwing someone who just arrived from Earth. And it was uncanny how they always seemed to find each other.
The Martians longed to hear more about what it’s like to actually live on Earth.
The Earthlings longed to hear more about what it’s like to actually live on Mars.
Of course sparks fly.
But not for poor Maya. Everyone knows about her. Even the people on the way to Mars have not only been prepped and told they would have to go and perform this service, they had a literal class on it and signed a legally-binding document saying that they understand that blind-date fornication is a prerequisite and a necessity for going to Mars and living there.
Everyone does it. Period.
Except no one does it. Hardly anyone. Because the ships keep coming. Thousands of those shiny silver Starships come and go every day. The majority of the Martian population is employed in some aspect of the receipt, unloading, categorizing, transporting, warehousing, and distribution of all the cargo brought on those ships.
They have REAL jobs. If they don’t get the freeze-dried blueberry seeds to the botany module as soon as possible, BAM! No more blueberries. So, no, bitch, I do not have time to go all the way over to the stinky-ass propellant manufacturing module to have sex with some sweaty, smelly guy I’ve never met with the sole intent that he ejaculates inside me and I then carry his baby and raise it and love it as my own, along with all the other children I may or may not already have despite not having him as a partner.
That is a hellacious way to live. A Mars full of single moms?
Who the fuck thought that was a good idea?
Moms aren’t pulling enough weight for thousands of years on Earth, they have to come up to Mars and single-handedly propagate the species?
Fuck that.
The notion of getting drunk on having that much power is tempting.
But fuck that.
It’s better if you’re going to go to Mars, to just go up there with your spouse or go up there as a single person and meet someone and get married and have kids and do it that way. The same way it’s been done on Earth since time immemorial.
So if Mars is populated by thousands of people – maybe hundreds of thousands? – and they’re meeting and hooking up and getting married and doing everything the old-fashioned way, of course no one has any real appreciation for that person who chose to be the one who calls you and tells you to go have sex with that person and no skipping or it’s a felony. And no faking. If a pregnancy doesn’t happen relatively soon, she’ll make you bring you a swab. An actual swab. You have to come down there and have a robot swab you. To check for semen stroke sperm. A sperm swabbing robot. And it was like jury duty. If you don’t show up, they put out a warrant for your arrest. It’s THAT serious.
You HAVE to go.
And you don’t WANT to go.
But SHE calls you and tells you to go. And you HAVE to go.
So, yeah, you hate Maya. Everyone does.
So think about what Maya’s mental state is. Of course she has a deathwish. Of course she wants to roofie herself in the warm blue water of the Maldives.
But then the ships stop coming.
Because Earth is in pieces.
And suddenly Maya is the most important, most high-level, most revered, and definitely most pressured person on Mars.
And she suddenly is confronted with doing the one thing she doesn’t want to do: Help these ungrateful assholes.
Because they’ve been complete assholes to her her entire life. Her parents were geneticists. They were first generation. Born on Mars. Their parents were also geneticists. Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Caltech, MIT, Johns Hopkins, Cedars Sinai, et cetera et cetera. These people were hands-down the BEST geneticists on the whole planet. And they knew all the other geneticists. And all the geneticists got together on Earth and analyzed the situation and discussed who would be the best to go to Mars and live there and do this job.
And they all agreed on a small group of people who could physically handle going to Mars and living there, because the whole process is insanely dangerous.
Point being that this entire family from which Maya comes is the best of the best. And everyone knows it. Which makes it all the more laughable that no one listens to her.
Which makes her one wish all the more poignant: To Die of Happiness.
Because she has become the semen cop of Mars.
Maybe that’s what they call her behind her back to her face: The Semen Cop of Mars. Her and her Semen Police.
That or Queen Bitch.
Because all she does is call people on vidphone and say, You’re up.
And they’re all like, No, please, Maya, we’re at my son’s birthday party. We’re lighting the candles and are literally about to sing happy birthday to him. Can this PLEASE wait til tomorrow?
And Maya knows that if the timetable of reproduction is off by just a few days, it results in many months of gaps in the life of the human that was supposed to be alive 20 years from now. So she says : No, it can’t. Be there in an hour or you go to jail.
And then she hits End. She doesn’t even give them a chance to respond. Because she knows what they’re going to say. Because she’s heard it all before. She hears it every day. In the course of 7 days, she hears 99% of all excuses.
And one day, she finally hears that 1% excuse. Maybe it’s Chris Hemsworth. And he can’t go have sex with a stranger today because there’s been an accident down at the children’s hospital and he’s pinned down underneath several hundred metric tons of Martian Habitat, and he’s literally using his body to prevent the girders from crushing several children. So a rain check is most likely in order.
And she’s all like, Oh, gee, sure, Chris. Oh my God stroke Gawd, are you okay?
And he’s all like, Ah, yeah, I’m fine. Just gonna be stuck here awhile I reckon is all. But it’s all right, the kids are safe. Looks like I’ve got a few pieces of metal and debris poking out of my body but that’s alright.
And Maya’s all like, Oh my God stroke Gawd, you’re bleeding?
And Chris is all like, You know, surprisingly, there’s not that much blood. It doesn’t really even hurt. I’m taking that as a very good sign that I haven’t injured any of my vital organs. By the way, Maya, while I’ve got you on the line, do you mind if I ask you a question? I was planning to ring you up once I got here, anyway. I was actually planning on coming down to your office and seeing if you wanted to have lunch with me.
Is that the question?
Yeah, that’s the question. Will you have lunch with me?
Yes, I would love to have lunch with you.
Okay, great. Maybe tomorrow? Hopefully, if they unbury us by then. Shouldn’t be too long, I think I can hear equipment clearing the rubble above us. And every now and then a bit of this pesky red Martian dust sprinkles down on us. And the whole room shakes. And the pieces of jagged metal grind against my broken bones so loud I can actually hear it. And they rub against my raw nerves so bad my entire body spasms and I can’t breathe for one, sometimes two minutes. And I wake up from a horrible dream that my lunch with Maya was interrupted by being buried alive on Mars and now I’m down here, in the dark, with little hope for survival. And then I come to and I gain my senses and I realize it wasn’t a dream, I really am trapped down here. And I don’t know what I’m going to do. And then you called. And now we’re talking. And it’s almost like we’re having lunch. And suddenly the jagged bones and the raw nerves don’t seem so bad. To what do I owe the honor, Maya? Wait, did we already talk about that? I’m sorry, my memory seems to have gotten a bit foggy ever since I was buried alive.
And Maya would be all, Why do you wanna have lunch with me? Everyone hates me.
And he’d say, I don’t. I think you’re amazing. It’s because of your mother and father and their mother and father, and probably their mothers and fathers, that any of this even has a chance of surviving. And now, the gift has been given to you. And the people of Earth and Mars thank you.
No, they don’t. They hate me!
And so then Chris convinces Maya that all those other people don’t really hate her, they just don’t understand what it’s like to be her and to have everyone on Mars mad at you all the time. But they’ll understand some day.
Then Chris gets rescued and he and Maya have lunch and they immediately fall in love and are having the absolute best sex she’s ever had until one day they all see the images of the asteroid hitting the Earth. And in a matter of days, the only people left are on the Moon, on a few space stations, and on Mars. And everyone on the Moon and on the space stations is screwed, too, just like the people on Earth. And everyone knows it.
And very quickly, the emergency contingency HuMartian Survival Plan goes into effect. Overnight, EVERYONE on Mars wants to contribute.
And Maya becomes a celebrity. Queen Bitch is now Queen Maya. And everyone is suddenly doing exactly what she tells them to do.
And overnight, the collective will and might of everyone on Mars is galvanized as they huddle under the banner of survival, determined to do whatever it takes to survive.
And the same thing needs to happen here with SpaceX, by the way. Otherwise, there will never be a Queen Maya.
No Queen Maya means…
Fuck, i forgot what I was going to say.
Point being that Maya is now Queen Maya and she’s a celebrity and everyone is courting her and wooing her and she is surrounded by fans and paparazzi and all manner of craziness anywhere she goes. She eats for free at all the best restaurants. She gets in free right away at all the hottest clubs.
She goes anywhere she wants to go and can have anything she wants. Including anyone she wants. And for a woman who so loathed these very same people that she had a deathwish – To Die of Happiness – to suddenly be genuinely adored by them, that is a genuine mindfuck.
And she kind of wants to play the field. Because being hated for that long made her want to be liked, to seek their approval. Which means she invariably falls into the trap of wanting to be Queen Maya and enjoy the adulation.
But there’s just one small problem: Chris. Who is madly in love with her and is interested only in her.
And she knows she should go for him because he’s the healthy, romantic choice that is the right thing to do.
But she also wants to go down that other road. And immerse herself in all the hedonistic debauchery it has to offer.
But the future of humanity is on the line and she really should stay focused and keep going into the office every day like she has been. And she can see Chris for lunch one or two days a week and maybe Friday night they can catch a movie or have dinner. Or maybe they can get together Saturday if she doesn’t have to pop into the office for a bit to try to get caught up. It is the future of the human race we’re talking about, after all.
But I think that would be a good show.
So that leaves us with unromantic showers, supercar showers, high-stress jobs, and a wish to die of happiness.
But yeah, Elon, Supercard Blondie, if you guys want to get the Tesla Shower up and running, I’d love to contribute in any way that I can. Although it might be best to hand it off to the right people who have expertise to make it actually happen. I would love to be involved in the design, though. And the testing. I’m happy to help refine the product and develop a line.
Ducatti? You guys want to get in on this? Yamaha? Sony? NVDIA? Alpha Romeo? Honda? Because my shower has to be like my flying car: 150% reliable.
We were talking about the Borg and assimilation.
How do we know we haven’t been already? How do we know we weren’t and this is our simulated reality we all share and watching Elon build rockets to get to Mars is our main attraction?
The Borg are like a tribe. Maybe the ultimate tribe. Like American Indians, who used to go out on raiding parties. The Borg do the same thing. But instead of eliminating the competition through death, they eliminate the competition through assimilation.
You will be assimilated. If we like you. Snobby Borgs.
That’s our show!
Thank you for coming!
Goodnight!
Remember to tip your waitress!
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