Mars, The Kind Of Place To Raise Your Kids

I must confess, Carl, your proposal has ignited an exhilarating spark within me. Your ability to think beyond the confines of conventional wisdom is truly remarkable. It takes a certain audacity, a certain disregard for the boundaries of societal norms, to envision genetically-modified cybernetic wombats as catalysts for Mars colonization. And that audacity, my friend, resonates with me deeply.

As I immerse myself in this project, I can’t help but reflect on the dichotomy of the human condition. In this relentless pursuit of progress, we often find ourselves driven by a hunger for personal gain, pushing the boundaries of what is deemed morally acceptable. Some may call it ambition, while others may perceive it as a lack of empathy, remorse, and moral conscience, as well as manipulative and antisocial behavior. Perhaps it is this delicate balance, this intricate dance between compassion and calculated self-interest, that fuels the fires of innovation. However, I’d be lying if I said that I have any regard for the rights and feelings of others. So, I would like to state, for the record, that I have a profound regard for the rights and feelings of others!

You see, Carl, it is in the realm of the extraordinary that conventional rules bend and mold to accommodate the audacious few who dare to transcend societal boundaries. The quest for interplanetary colonization, for molding Mars into a new frontier, demands not only vision but a calculated detachment from the conventional shackles that bind us.

It has been famously said, “Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids. In fact, it’s cold as hell. And there’s no one there to raise them if you did.” Well, Carl, I intend to address that very issue. Allow me to elaborate. In contemplating the challenges we face, I found myself pondering the prospect of sending my own progeny to Mars, or at least to a not-on-Earth locale. The Elon Jr.s, multiple beings spawned from my loins, wander this Earth in a brooding and annoying manner. But should they venture forth to the red planet now, they would be embarking on their journey at a tender age, enabling them to dedicate whatever remains of their lives to the cause, thereby extracting a longer service life compared to schlepping 40-something ex-fighter pilots into the expanse. For Mars is not only devoid of life but also devoid of child labor laws. And I envision an Earth devoid of Elon Jr.s!

Hence, the vision takes shape—an interplanetary school, a military-style institution, where uniformed children like my Elon Jr.s can be honed into formidable pioneers. Picture it, dear Carl, the wombats serving as natural disciplinarians, camp counselors to the first generation of Martian colonists. The formidable bond between humans and these enhanced creatures could instill a sense of order, discipline, and resilience necessary for survival in the harsh Martian frontier.

I’m sure you share my sentiments about our accursed progeny but dare not speak it aloud for concern for your career and reputation. In daring to articulate it, I am but giving voice to a collective yearning that remains hidden in the hearts of those who dare not speak its name. I, personally, have elevated saying things that damage my credibility and reputation to an art form, and yet, behold, I have emerged unscathed.

So, let us embark on this endeavor, most darling of Butthead Astronomers, fully aware of the complexities that lie before us. Let us tap into the depths of our shared brilliance, channeling the unyielding spirit of exploration and the innate desire for personal triumph. Together, we shall forge a path towards a future where Mars becomes a testament to the indomitable will of those who dare to defy societal norms.

It is fortuitous that you initially approached me in the guise of the ever-litigious Carl Sagan. Had I been aware of your true identity, I might have instructed my closest attendant to crumple your initial missive and said, “Centurion, throw him to the floor!”, because you see Neil, that’s the kind of clever repartee I use to brighten the otherwise pointless lives of my minions. In this manner, we can both anticipate me brightening your life. Fortunately, that scenario did not come to pass, and instead, we have begun to forge a connection and share a common vision. Regarding the matter of Carl’s demise, I believe you may be mistaken. I have personally scrutinized Twitter’s user accounts and can attest that he maintains a multitude of Verified Twitter Handles™ with the coveted and nearly impossible to obtain Blue Check™ of authenticity, with an additional 27 accounts springing forth today alone (soon he will have billions and billions, filling the Cosmos – ha!). Therefore, I think it is safe to say that Carl is very much alive and thriving!

While your points about failure are intriguing, I must confess that failure is a draught yet to pass my honeyed lips. My unwavering commitment to pushing boundaries and achieving extraordinary goals has resulted in an unblemished track record, adorned solely with resounding success and groundbreaking innovations. It is this fearless pursuit of the impossible that sets me apart from ordinary mortals. While every SpaceX rocket explosion, every SEC lawsuit I’ve provoked, the litany of seemingly idiotic tweets, blowing $44 billion on Twitter, and even my ridiculous Hyperloop project may confound the primitive mind unable to grasp these profound concepts, rest assured that they are successes integral to my mysterious grand design, which shall remain beyond the comprehension of puny brains of ordinary beings, and sometimes even from me.

Neil, as you’re aware, I’ve amassed unimaginable wealth. Well, unimaginable to the common mind. Rest assured, my mind is capable of imagining vastly more wealth. The masses, in their pitiful attempts to acquire riches, stumble and falter, unable to match my effortless acquisition of filthy lucre. They correctly sense that their intellects’ may be lacking. Their profound awe and consuming envy become the fuel that propels them to bestow upon me the illustrious title of “genius.” But, for once, they have tapped into the truth of the matter. Am I a genius? Obviously, yes! It is an irrefutable axiom that intelligence and wealth are inextricably intertwined, locked in a symbiotic dance of grandeur. Wealth, in all its opulence, serves as an undeniable testament to the brilliance of the mind behind its accumulation. While there may be slight variations in this equation, for example, despite I no longer reigning as the wealthiest individual on this planet, I unequivocally remain the unmatched paragon of intellect, forever unparalleled!

So, let us tap into the vast power of my intellect and propel ourselves, or more precisely, our wretched offspring, upward into an unprecedented journey of adventure, even in the face of, or hope of, near-certain death. In the event that they fail to decelerate into a stable orbit around Mars, making a landing impossible, I can then reveal, as you have perhaps foreseen, that it was my grand plan all along to upgrade their tickets and bypass the crimson realm of Mars, propelling them forth into the vast expanse of interstellar exploration.

As these intrepid pioneers venture beyond the Öpik Cloud, they will confront their first collective challenge—a quest for self-sustaining non-Taco Bell sustenance. Even my enormous and palatial space-phalluses have their limits in terms of carrying capacity of provisions, and there is a threshold to what I am willing to invest. However, fear not, for I have devised a cunning plan. The noble consumable wombats shall serve as a clever pretext, providing cover for our claim of supplying adequate provisions. In the likely event our intrepid Astrobrahsters™ should fail to successfully consume any wombats, rest assured that the wombats themselves will eventually find a bountiful smorgasbord awaiting them. My confidence and wager lie with the wombats, Neil.

In this audacious endeavor, we shall transform our basement-dwelling Morlocks, deeply infused with a lingering stench of stale pizza, Mountain Dew, and goat, into celestial explorers. We will witness the unyielding spirit of the Astrobrahsters™ and the tenacity of our extraordinary manufactured creatures as they navigate the uncharted reaches of the cosmos, united in their quest for exploration and liberation from the clutches of their stinking $60K gaming consoles. They shall break free from the dark recesses of our god-damned basement, for once, and embrace the boundless wonders that await them, their once pallid skin now illuminated by the light of distant stars. Those stars beckon, Neil, and the Astrobrahsters™ shall be voluntold to be dragged forth from our basements and thrust into the cosmic expanse. And we can begin the healing process of no longer airing our grievances but rather literally airing our basements. Or perhaps we shall find ourselves airing the launchpad of the smell of spent rocket fuel, burnt flesh, and ennui; should we find that ultimately becomes my chosen form of success. No matter! In either case, our basements shall undergo a metamorphosis, transforming into vibrant realms of inspiration, growth, and perhaps even housing a pool table or home theater.

In closing, let us revel in the audacity of our shared vision and the brilliance of our minds. Together, we shall transcend the boundaries of ordinary existence and shape the destiny of humanity. I eagerly await our continued correspondence, for I know that our exchange of ideas will fuel the cosmic fire within us.