⚖️ Legal Disclaimer

 This is a satirical commentary in the unmistakable voice and spirit of the late George Carlin—unfiltered, unapologetic, and designed to punch up at power, not down at people.

The views expressed here are not literal, not actionable, and not meant to be mistaken for news, policy, or interplanetary travel advice. This piece is protected under the principles of free speech and parody, particularly as it critiques public figures, corporations, and government policy.

If you're offended by jokes more than injustice, upset by words more than war budgets, or think billionaires are above mockery because they own rockets, you're exactly who George would’ve been talking to.

No golf balls were actually launched at Kansas. Probably.

All resemblance to people, companies, or space tyrants is intentional.

🎤 "Eleven Minutes to Nowhere: The Space Barbie PR Tour"

 A George Carlin-Style Rant on Blue Origin’s All-Female Galactic Tea Party

So Jeff Bezos—Captain Bald Rocket himself—decides to send an all-female crew to the edge of space for a whole… eleven minutes.

ELEVEN MINUTES.

That’s not a space mission. That’s a bathroom break at Target.

 That’s shorter than a commercial break during The View.

 And for this, we got breathless headlines screaming:

“HISTORIC!”“TRAILBLAZING!”“WOMEN IN SPACE!”

Yeah, we had that. In the 1980s. With people who actually orbited the fing planet.***

But no, now we’ve got Bezos turning his midlife crisis into a stratospheric photo op. He packs six women into a capsule shaped like a dildo with ambition, presses a button, and whoosh—they’re weightless for the amount of time it takes to microwave popcorn.

They didn’t go to space.

 They flirted with the stratosphere.

 They got just high enough to see the curvature of the Earth and their publicist’s Instagram post.

🛠️ The “Feminist” Angle

Now don’t get me wrong. I love badass women. I want women in space. I want women commanding missions, designing rockets, running NASA, and slapping Elon Musk across the face with a blueprint.

But this?

This was cosmic corporate virtue-signaling.

 A suborbital sorority retreat.

 They weren’t astronauts—they were passengers on a space-themed Uber ride.

And the media ate it up like communion wafers at a Taylor Swift mass.

“It’s empowering!”

No it’s not.

 It’s marketing with ovaries.

💸 Let’s Talk Money

Meanwhile, back on Earth, we’ve got millions of women who can’t afford childcare, healthcare, or housing—but hey! At least they got to watch Katy Perry float around in zero-G for five minutes while Jeff Bezos stroked his ego from mission control.

That’s what empowerment looks like in 2025, baby:

“You’re broke and on fire, but look—someone who once hosted a daytime talk show went to space!”

🚀 And the “Space Race” Itself?

This whole billionaire rocket show is nothing more than a pissing contest with thrusters.

 Musk wants to colonize Mars.

 Bezos wants to own Earth orbit.

 And Branson just wants people to remember he still exists.

It’s a midlife crisis arms race.

 Men who made too much money, got bored of yachts, and now think “Hey, what if I privatized the fing solar system?”***

🧨 Final Thought?

You want a real space milestone?

Let’s launch some teachers, nurses, farm workers, artists—

 People who actually give a sh*t about this planet.

Not billionaires and their celebrity plus-ones trying to cosplay NASA while the rest of us ration insulin and dodge heatwaves.

Because at the end of the day, this wasn’t about science.

 It wasn’t about exploration.

 It was a goddamn press junket with better views.

You want to change the world?

Try doing it down here.

Because space may be the final frontier,

 but Earth’s still where the assholes are.

🛰️ Interlude: Bezos, the Moon, and the Dumbest Timeline

 Of course, billionaires weren't content ruining one planet.

 No, they had to export their greed to the stars.

 And because reality is now basically a rejected Black Mirror episode, here's a little glimpse into what happens when Jeff Bezos decides the Moon isn’t sacred — it’s underdeveloped real estate.

“Lunar HOA”

 Jeff Bezos stood at the edge of Crater 17-B, squinting through his custom titanium sunglasses, designed to filter out glare and ethics.  Behind him, a massive banner rippled gently—fed by a steady hiss of imported argon gas vented from a pressurized tank, because Bezos insisted on "a little movement for the cameras," even if it cost more than the GDP of Malta. 

“Blue Origin Lunar Links™ – The Highest Golf Course in the Solar System!”

 The fairway was carved directly into the Moon’s crust, complete with imported Bermuda grass—each blade individually encapsulated in a microthin, ultra-durable polymer developed at obscene expense just for this vanity project—and a concierge bunker bot named “Sandy,” programmed to offer emotional support after bogeys. 

“Fore!” Bezos shouted, launching a platinum golf ball toward Earthrise.

It was his fifth this morning.

 He was still trying to hit Kansas.

A low chime interrupted his practice swing.

“Mr. Bezos,” came the voice in his helmet. It was Alexa, now repurposed into a fully autonomous legal assistant. “We have a problem. The Moon is suing.”

Bezos paused. “The what?”

“The Moon. Technically, the International Lunar Governance Authority. But the Moon’s the face of the class-action.”

Bezos frowned. “On what grounds?”

“Illegal zoning. Environmental desecration. Cultural disruption of sacred craters. You paved over a historical regolith preserve for a putting green. Also, your robots keep carving the Blue Origin logo into the maria.”

Jeff snorted. “Oh come on. It’s not like anyone lives here.”

The Moon rumbled.

 One of the sand traps collapsed.

“Objection noted,” Alexa said.

The golf ball he’d launched earlier looped back on itself, as if yanked by karma.

It cracked his visor.

🎤 "Dreams of the Stars... Sold for Parts"

A George Carlin-Style Reflective Rant

You know, there was a time—

 not that long ago—

 when we dreamed about the stars.

Not as a place to park a f*ing billboard**,

 but as something bigger than ourselves.

 Something noble.

 Something worth the blood, sweat, and broken bones it would take to get there.

The Golden Age of Science Fiction — Clarke, Heinlein, Asimov —

 they imagined a future where we’d reach for the stars together.

 Not because we could, but because we should.

Whole worlds opened up on the page.

 Big ideas.

 Big dreams.

Colonies on Mars, orbiting cities, peaceful alliances across the stars.

 No "platinum-tier memberships."

 No "first-class orbital suites."

 No bullshit.

Just... humanity.

 Expanding. Growing up.

Becoming something better.

Then came NASA.

Real boots.

 Real rockets.

 Real human beings strapping themselves to explosions in a can and saying:

"Yeah, let’s roll the dice for the future."

Apollo wasn’t a tech demo.

 It was a goddamn miracle.

 A ragtag bunch of geniuses, alcoholics, and maniacs duct-taping together a moonshot before lunch and inventing half of modern civilization by accident.

And later, the Shuttle.

Oh sure, it got corporate.

 It got political.

 It got boring.

But goddammit, it still meant something.

It meant we’re not done yet.

It meant this planet is not the limit.

And now?

Now we got Musk, Bezos, Branson, and whatever other bald dipsht is writing checks with his dick.*

Now space—the dream of centuries—isn't a frontier.

It’s a theme park.

 A pissing contest.

A selfie backdrop.

They’re not building civilizations out there.

 They’re building resorts.

Orbiting hotels where you can experience weightlessness for $250,000 a minute while the ground burns and your Amazon package melts on the porch.

“Space for all!”

 Yeah—if you’ve got enough money to wipe your ass with shares of SpaceX stock.

We went from “We came in peace for all mankind” to

“Swipe your Visa and float for TikTok clout.”

But you know what kills me?

It didn’t have to be this way.

You look at the Cassidyverse — and yeah, I know it’s fiction, but goddamn it’s the fiction we deserve.

Kendra Cassidy and Aiyana Cassidy —

 they inherited enough money to buy a continent.

You know what they did?

They built something.

They didn’t launch a fleet of yachts into low orbit.

 They didn’t build a golf course on the Moon.

 They said:

"How about we build a future where nobody gets left behind?""How about we earn our place in the stars?"

They made humanity better, stronger, smarter.

 They made Njord.

 They made the Dreamer.

 Not a party barge.

 Not a dick-measuring contest with rocket fuel.

A future.

 For everyone.

Imagine that.

 Using wealth to lift people up instead of launching yourself into orbit for an ego boost and a commemorative jacket.

But here?

In real life?

We trade dreams for spectacle.

 Hope for hashtags.

 Exploration for Exclusivity™.

And we cheer for it.

 Like dumbasses.

 Like good little consumers.

The only stars we’re reaching for now?

Five stars on Yelp.

🧨 Final Thought?

The dream wasn’t wrong.

 We were.

 We let the bastards who sell us sneakers, debt, and politicians

sell us the stars too.

And they’ll keep selling 'em —

 chunk by chunk —

 until all that’s left of humanity’s greatest dream is a sponsored livestream with ads every three minutes.

Because if there’s one thing the billionaires taught us...

It’s that even the universe can be gentrified.

And buddy, you better believe there’s a dress code.

🏌️‍♂️🌕 Welcome to Blue Origin Lunar Links™

The Galaxy’s Premier Golf Destination—Because Earth Is For Peasants.

Imagine teeing off on Hole One: Sea of Tranquility, Par 3.

 Watch your titanium ball arc gracefully over the remnants of Apollo 11 like history was your caddy.

Tired of gravity?

 So were we.

 That’s why Lunar Links offers ultra-light putting, zero-G bunkers, and 360° orbital swing analytics powered by artificial intelligence and Elon Musk’s severed ambition.

💸 EXCLUSIVE AMENITIES

• Individually-Encapsulated Bermuda Grass™
•  Each blade wrapped in nano-polymer for that fresh Earth feel, grown in a $3 billion moon greenhouse built solely to make your 9-iron feel smug.
• Pressurized Oxygen Lounge
•  Where you can sip vaporized Macallan 1926 while watching poor people protest via lunar livestream.
• Bunker Bot “Sandy”
•  Part concierge, part emotional support, part AI confession booth. She knows when you lie about your score. And she tells Jeff.
• Atmosphere Not Included
•  Literally. We charge extra for air. You're welcome.

🧑‍🚀 BOOK NOW. SPACE IS LIMITED.

Reservations accepted via Dogecoin, private neural handshake, or blood pact with the Bezos Foundation for Terrestrial Uplift.

Ask about our Kardashian Package—includes lunar Botox, custom helmet bedazzling, and 90 seconds of pre-orbit TikTok time.

Blue Origin Lunar Links™

If you’ve already ruined Earth, why not f** up the Moon too?*