Humans, by now you’re settled into your new planet after decimating the old one. Let’s review: as Greenland melted and the Solomon Islands drowned, a rising throng of newfangled disaster-exploiter-supply-chain-docent-experts arose to exploit the raw-material-free-child-labor-consumerette-refugees, stumbling from the ashes of A Lepo-like pigeon cannibalizing a foie-gras infused duck. The petroleum-soaked wind beneath our wings kept us grounded on the former USS Miss Universe Pageant NavWeap, where we’re currently grounded on Biosphere 3 Special Edition: Gilligan’s Island Panopticon Revisited, aka our new “home” — Earth Deux. Original Edition Earth was fun while it lasted, putting aside war, slavery, historical reenactments, day-before-birth abortion, coal-rolling, genocide, pledge week, Us magazine, authoritarian militarized drone corporatocracy, shopping, deadstock, all forms of sexercise including couples yoga, halftime shows, fast fashion, life sentences for children, My Big Racist Redneck Vacation, etc… regardless of these things, it’s been a good time, a practical 40-ton tractor pull out of the Dark Ages whenst burning someone at the stake seemed but a quaint microagression. Clad in our flammable tunics, we’re now ready for the death-by-injection-Molotov-waterboard-cocktail, willy-nilly-shooting-of-everyone-and-anyone, of-all-of-us-by-all-of-us. What a time to be alive! The innocence of childhood can now officially be replaced by That Feeling When all carbon-based life form was finally successfully eradicated.
In a way, life on Earth Deux is simpler for our future selves. Pourqoui, you ask? The reset button has been pressed, leading us into a magical Arcadian landscape, where kittens in baskets work 80-hour days out of the goodness of their tiny fuzzy hearts; where there’re capacious waterfalls of margarine-fracked brine with shallots, cornichons and an aioli drizzle, lit by brightly burning trash fires whispering, “Don’t worry about toupee-touting heterosexist patriarchal fear mongering tardigrades, because your wise leaders will be whatever microbes are left after the Capitalocene!” (i.e., those who are typing similar screeds on their tiny yogurt-powered laptops, as we speak…). Where “Hello, nice to meet you” will be replaced by legitimate rape (not to be confused with ‘affectionate rape’) and a light pistol-whipped topping. Genus Homo Economicus will transform his beautiful self into a full-time shopper, housed inside of a recycleable Big Brown Bag, located in these rustic-modernist Pop-Up United States, approved of by retail therapists and life coaches alike. Where we all wear the Blue Vest and get locked inside the Great Warehouse of Life each night, whether we get paid or not. We’ve bundled our sub-prime packages and swiped our chip$ while patiently waiting for our masseuse-landlord-chauffer-handyman-Grindr-date-savior-childcare-provider-mortgage-broker to woManifest.
New Couple Alert! The right and the left are on a hot date and perpetually peaking on molly, as they clandestinely enter through the poor door and slide into home base using apartheid-laced garbage juice lube. It’s a top-down policy agreed-upon by everyone because the two-party system was just simply annoying after awhile. We just need one big, bloody, violent, resounding YES WE CAN’T! We believers have come to believe in the one-party system, down to our last Cheetoh-dusted bodyhair follicle. We’ve suffered a traumatic polyvinylchloride carpet ride through Debateland and found ourselves – for a beautiful nanosecond of pleasure and confusion – mutually bonded with all fellow prisoner-citizens of Earth Deux in our menstrual-hormonal resignation. We endured a lot trying this democratic experiment, and now, isn’t it relaxing to just let go? As the graduate class of 2017 says, embrace the full-frontal failure and never forget, it’s nobody’s fault!