Legal Disclaimer: This is a satirical commentary in the voice of George Carlin. If you’re allergic to profanity, logic, or the idea that science is more important than billionaire dick-measuring contests, go watch cable news. The rest of us have galaxies to discuss.

You ever look up at the sky and really think about what’s up there? Not the zodiac shit or your cousin’s horoscope—I mean what’s actually flying around this planet right now.

We’ve got asteroids out there doing synchronized swimming with Earth.

One of them—2025 PN7—is hanging around like that friend who never pays rent but keeps eating your leftovers. A quasi-moon, they call it. It’s been stalking Earth for sixty damn years and nobody noticed! Sixty years! You can’t even hide a bad tweet that long.

And who found it? 

NASA and their sky-watching buddies with those giant metal eyeballs—Pan-STARRS up on Haleakalā, the Rubin Observatory coming online in Chile, telescopes so powerful they could spot your missing car keys from orbit.

They’re out there mapping rocks, moons, and mystery debris, so that maybe, just maybe, we can avoid getting Armageddoned by a space rock the size of Cleveland. That’s right—real people with real brains making sure Bruce Willis doesn’t have to die again.

They’re charting orbits, running simulations, building detectors that can see a pebble in the dark from halfway to Mars.

It’s art. It’s math. It’s magic wrapped in engineering. We’re talking celestial ballet, and we’re the orchestra pit. Every time they find one of these little hitchhikers, it’s another page in the story of the universe.

And we’re still learning how to read.

That’s the beauty of science—it doesn’t give a fuck about your politics, your profits, or your pastor. It cares about data, truth, gravity, and the fact that if you stop funding the telescope, the rock still hits you. 

It’s humbling. It’s heroic. It’s humanity at its absolute best.

And now—we’re firing the orchestra.

Four thousand NASA staff walking out the door this year. Budget cuts deeper than a black hole. Real scientists—planetary defense experts, astronomers, engineers—being told,

 “Sorry, we’re reallocating funds to fireworks for the next Mars selfie.”

Sean Duffy’s holding the reins, acting head, because the FOTUS decided to cancel the nominee who actually knew what the fuck he was doing—revenge politics, you see, because God forbid space exploration doesn’t revolve around his ego.

JPL’s cutting 550 jobs.

Missions delayed. Projects scrapped. If it’s not the Artemis program—the splashy “look, Ma, we put a flag on the moon again” headline—it’s toast. 

Real science? The kind that doesn’t come with a photo op?

Gone.

We’re gutting the very agency that keeps us from going extinct because the politicians can’t tell the difference between a balance sheet and a trajectory plot. You can’t see the Milky Way from a yacht, so who cares, right? Cut the labs, cut the staff, but by all means keep the logo so we can slap it on a T-shirt at Target.

This is what it looks like when a civilization mistakes spectacle for substance. We’ll spend billions on stadiums, but not sensors. We’ll build rockets that say “Made in America” but won’t pay the scientist who calculates where they land.

We stare up at the cosmos with wonder, then turn around and tell the people who brought us there to clean out their desks. That’s not exploration. That’s suicide with branding.

Because this—this could be our golden age. We have the tools, the knowledge, the brains. We could be mapping the universe, saving the planet, rewriting destiny. 

Instead, we’re defunding the future because it doesn’t fit into a campaign slogan.

Look at the sky—it’s full of companions, new worlds, strange orbits, and quiet miracles. And down here? We’re laying off the miracle workers.

So when the next asteroid decides to swing by, I hope it looks down at Earth, sees the lights going out at NASA, and says, “Ah, never mind. They’re already doing my job for me.”