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.