Campaing for Greta Thunberg
Tag: Billionaires
Valencia Floods
Oh, but it’s positively incredible how the people of Valencia clutch at the government’s skirts like lost children in a rainstorm! They actually expect warnings when a flood is on the way, as if nature itself should ring their doorbells. They imagine protocols will spring up to save them—protocols! Why, they could’ve simply popped to the market, where every manner of inflatable contraption was on sale: floating armchairs, luxury life vests bedazzled with faux diamonds, and even portable flood dams (although one wonders why they hadn’t bought two or three already). The market provides, after all! For just a month’s wages, one could’ve had a raft shaped like a giant swan or, better still, a Venetian gondola look-alike for that authentic submerged experience. Alas, they simply refuse to fend for themselves—how terribly misguided! The government is no life jacket, no matter how one puffs it up.
Well, yes, if the government must meddle, let it be in the form of good, solid tax breaks! Imagine the incentives: tax deductions on personal raft purchases, rebates for inflatable duckies, and perhaps a subsidy or two for the luxury yacht life preservers, fitted with GPS and faux-leather cupholders. They could set up a grant for entrepreneurial sorts to market high-end flood accessories—like waterproof Bluetooth speakers so people could float around in style, listening to Les Misérables as they drift through their very own barricades. Maybe even a small business loan for anyone wishing to open a boutique selling “Flood Essentials”—designer sandbags, artisanal buckets, and bespoke water wings in the latest hues of despair. That’s the kind of “support” the government should be offering! Anything else would simply distort the natural, self-correcting power of the market!
Now if you want solutions just ask the billionaires. Imagine, if you will, the Hyper-Sink: an architectural marvel that would funnel every drop of water right through the earth to the other side of the world—completely self-sustaining, fully solar-powered, and, naturally, a triumph of private enterprise. It would’ve been the most beautiful sink, a masterpiece of human ingenuity, a monument to the pioneering spirit of those daring enough to bypass the government’s limp hand. But alas, the red tape strangled our vision! The bureaucrats couldn’t possibly grasp the brilliance of draining Valencia’s floods to, oh, let’s say, Australia. No, the permits were delayed, the environmental impact studies became “essential,” and the whole glorious concept sank before it ever even saw a drop of water.
1. Airbnb Climate Shelters – Because nothing says climate resilience like overpriced, short-term rentals in flooded zones.
2. Uber for Boats – On-demand rides in floodwaters with “surge pricing” based on depth and urgency.
3. Meal Kits for Climate Crises – Fresh, gourmet meals delivered weekly (when delivery routes aren’t underwater).
4. WeWork Disaster Coworking Spaces – Pop-up coworking lounges where the A/C is blasting, while the world outside swelters.
5. IoT Smart Sandbags – App-controlled sandbags that alert you when water breaches (but, naturally, require Wi-Fi).
6. Blockchain for Disaster Aid – Crypto-based aid where donations take weeks to verify, but hey, they’re “secure.”
7.Climate-Tracking Wearables – Wristbands that warn you of the heat… if you weren’t already melting outside.
9. Virtual Reality Evacuation Drills – Practice fleeing disasters in VR, no real-world infrastructure needed.
10. NFT Carbon Offsets – Collectible offsets, “backed” by vague promises to plant trees… someday.
11. Electric Scooters for Hurricanes – Hop on an electric scooter and, if you’re lucky, escape a hurricane one block at a time.
12. AI Flood Prediction Apps – Real-time flood prediction that sends alerts just in time for you to swim for higher ground.
13. Subscription-Based Fire Escape Ladders – Rent your escape ladder for an affordable monthly fee, billed until you cancel.
14. Augmented Reality Home Repairs – View potential repairs through your phone screen while your roof blows off in a storm.
15. Bespoke Luxury Survival Kits – Designer kits for climate resilience, complete with a gold-plated can opener.
16. Pay-Per-Use Solar Chargers – Rentable phone chargers for post-blackout areas, only a dollar per minute.
17. Insurance for Your Insurance – Premium protection plans for your flood or fire insurance, just in case that company goes bust.
18. Climate Crisis Networking App – Meet other disaster survivors in your area and collaborate… for a monthly fee.
19.Subscription Water Rationing Service – Get access to water deliveries during shortages if you subscribe at the premium tier.
Narco Narcissism
A scabrous ego, pulsating with black market hunger. It slithers up the mirrored pyramid of power, convinced it’s the diamond at the apex. This ain’t no penthouse suite, baby, it’s a roach motel wired with paranoia. The diamonds are chipped, the champagne’s bathtub gin, and the only view is a kaleidoscope of self-loathing fractured by chrome and glass. This ain’t a food chain, it’s a ouroboros with a taste for Gucci loafers. It swallows its own tail with each glistening fix, a hollow echo chamber of need amplifying into oblivion. Narco Narcissism – where self-love curdles into a toxic sludge, and the only validation comes from the flickering neon sign of a pharmacy cross.
This a spastic ballet of ego and id, pirouetting on a stage of self-inflicted ruin. The junkie’s gaze, magnified by shards of broken glass and warped by cheap thrills, sees themselves as Colossus bestriding the world – a Colossus strung out on angel dust and wet dreams.
This ain’t the marble halls of Freud’s Vienna, no sir. This narcissism is feral, clawing its way out of a malnourished psyche. It’s a hollow echo chamber, where whispers of grandeur bounce off the slick sheen of sweat and desperation. The mirror in the bathroom cracks, not from the user’s weary visage, but from the monstrous weight of their own delusion. They are both king and court jester in this sordid play, a drama fueled by needles and punctuated by the desperate scramble for score.
They are Narcissus, yes, but Narcissus reflected in a funhouse mirror – grotesque, distorted, a parody of the myth. The pool they bend over is not cool and clear, but fetid and stagnant, filled with the detritus of self-destruction. And the love object they see staring back? A stranger, gaunt and hollow-eyed, a ghost of their former selves.
This ain’t the marble immortality of the Caesars, it’s a chrome-plated coffin careening down a one-way street paved with fixer dust. The world shrinks to a pinprick reflection in the spoon, a distorted funhouse mirror image where flaws morph into grotesque caricatures of power. The hunger for the next fix eclipses everything, a bottomless pit craves validation, craves oblivion, craves anything but the gnawing emptiness beneath the borrowed bravado. It’s a grotesque ballet, a danse macabre performed on a stage littered with needles and desperation. Narco Narcissism ain’t pretty, baby, it’s a one-man show hurtling towards a blackout.
A Game of Boiling Frogs
We’re in a game of boiling frogs, but this isn’t your run-of-the-mill slow death in a pot—it’s an industrial-sized cauldron, big enough for the whole goddamned species. The wealthiest among us, the kings of silicon and shadow, are camped out by the dial, their sweaty hands on the thermostat, grinning like lunatics. They’ve mastered the con: keep the cooker on, rake in the profits, and sell the rest of us tickets to the circus while the water starts to bubble.
But they’ve got no intention of sticking around for the boil. No, these grinning devils have a plan. When the steam starts to rise, they’ll leap out, not to dry land but into orbit—vaulting into space like cosmic cowboys, champagne in one hand and a middle finger to gravity in the other. Mars, they say. Or maybe some floating utopia made of reinforced arrogance and platinum-plated dreams. The rest of us? We’re cooked.
We’ll stew in the broth of their excess, basted in the juices of runaway capitalism and climate rot, while they toast their escape at zero gravity. It’s the oldest trick in the book, but now the stakes are interplanetary. The frogs are boiling, the clock is ticking, and the only question left is: How much longer before someone flips the damn pot?
May they Boil in Space Radiation
Ah, yes, radiation—the great cosmic equalizer. They’ve got their gilded rockets and billion-dollar survival pods, but space doesn’t give a damn about wealth or ambition. While we stew in the ruins they left behind, their grand escape might land them in a slow-roasting nuclear hell of their own, cooked not by the pot but by the relentless kiss of gamma rays and solar winds.
The irony is almost poetic. They claw their way out of Earth’s gravity well, desperate to dodge the mess they made, only to find themselves in a tin can surrounded by an unforgiving void. No ozone, no magnetic field, just an endless bath of cosmic death rays cooking their precious DNA strand by strand. Sure, they’ll have shielding—maybe even some cutting-edge tech—but entropy doesn’t negotiate, and space doesn’t do refunds.
So maybe that’s the punchline in this farce: while we boil down here, they’ll fry up there. Different pots, same flame.
Escape Plan
Their so-called “escape plan” isn’t salvation—it’s just a different recipe in the cosmic cookbook. They’re swapping one stew for another, so high on their own supply of ambition and self-importance that they can’t even taste the irony. All that cocaine-dusted bravado, and they’ve convinced themselves that space is some kind of billionaire’s Eden—a clean slate where they can play god without the mess of history or consequence dragging them down.
But the truth? They’re just trading one pressure cooker for another. Down here, it’s rising seas and raging mobs. Up there, it’s radiation, cabin fever, and the crushing loneliness of a vacuum that doesn’t care how many Teslas you sold. It’s the same endgame, just with a shinier brochure.
And maybe that’s the real tragedy—they’ve snorted so much powdered delusion that they can’t recognize the truth anymore. They don’t see a planet worth saving, just a launchpad for their next big grift. They’ll smile for the cameras, talk about “humanity’s future,” and then blast off into the great unknown, leaving the rest of us to simmer in the ruins they left behind.
But they’re cooked, too. They just don’t know it yet. Their stew’s flavored with hubris, spiced with desperation, and served with a side of cosmic karma. Bon appétit.