With huge portions of life on Earth being burned, flooded, starved, suffocated and fried alive, the world’s two richest dudes—Jeff “The Pecker” Bezos and Musky Elon Musk—plus that other fly boy billionaire with less billions (Sir Dick the Virgin)—are playing sperm wars in space to determine the answer to this apparently vital question: Whose dick, aka rocketship, is bigger, stronger and faster than the rest?
Though seriously folks, who wants a fast dick?
And who needs this Billionaire Dicks in Space Race?
Apparently, the sexually insecure yet utterly unbridled egos of Bezos, Branson and Musk need this space race very badly.
That’s pretty much it.
It sure won’t help folks on Earth who are suffering through climate catastrophes and the worst economic disparity ever. And that’s just their fellow humans; billions of other species are rapidly going extinct thanks to the selfish actions of wealthy men (and a few wealthy women) very much like this flighty crew—albeit most are not quite so exhibitionistic. Billionaires each have their own different fetishes, such as cars, cowboy hats, virgins…
Yes, the rich are human beings like the rest of us—they’re just morbidly obese with money.
I guess that’s why they’re called “Fat Cats.”
Really, we need a weight-loss program for the rich, or as we say on F.D.R. (Fuck Da Rich) radio, “Da Rich.”
After all, don’t these space cadets all love being weightless?
It would be good for their health, as well as the health of society, if they could shed some of the money-weight and surrender some of that filthy lucre. The problem is these big billionaire babies can’t or won’t lose the pounds (dollars or euros) without our help. Some say “Eat the Rich,” and that’s not a bad meal plan; but we’d rather Fuck Da Rich (out of their money) than eat them (ewww!). Whichever metaphor you prefer, we need to tax those bitches before they come down with money diabetes, aka “affluenza,” as the rest of us simply starve.
Here’s another, slightly kinky metaphor: Like a good benevolent Mistress, We the People need to gently but firmly put those Rich Dicks on a short leash. Maybe even a chastity belt. Because without a good Mistress’ supervision, these unleashed penis-brains are “ejaculating their ego rockets” into space willy-nilly.
Consider the sorry spectacle of Bezos, being forced to watch like a steaming cuckold from the sidelines, stroking his rocket, as Musky Elon shot his phallic roadster into space and Sir Dick did his Galactic Jig in rhythm to “Release! Release! Release,” before he could finally shoot his load into space and join the sickly, spacey sperm-wars.
It is eerie how Bezos’ rocket looks even more like a little penis—or a vibrating dildo (a Pocket Rocket?)—than he does. Seemingly aware of this uncanny resemblance on some level, the dick-pic-snapping mogul let his hair grow a little on the sides so his skull would look less like a glistening dickhead. Nevertheless, there’s no missing his phallic obsession.
On some level, we all know this. Thus, as we watched Mr. Moneyballs shoot his dirty load into the West Texas sky, ejaculating carbon dioxide instead of just sperm, many of us Earthlings united in deep passionate yearning for Bezos’ silly little cock-rocket to just stay up there and get lost in space.
Unfortunately, he returned to the dry Texas dirt only to rupture our ears by proclaiming his very personal “appreciation” to all the Amazon workers he abuses and to all the customers he monopolizes because, as the world’s (second) richest dick chortled helplessly, “You guys paid for all this.”
This triggered a howl—not of cosmic-orgasmic joy, but of almost universal outrage—heard round the Internet.
What an obnoxious, insensitive statement, the worst part of which is that it’s true. Except the dim-bulb dickwad forgot to thank all the U.S. taxpayers who helped to foot his fuel bill. And what about all those little Washington Post scribes who would never dream of writing anything to cock-block his rocket; hasn’t their *unbiased* Amazon-owned journalism helped “pay for this” too?
Just because you’re a self-centered narcissist doesn’t mean you don’t get lonely (Ground Control to Major Tom!), so Bezos brought along his brother, 82-year-old female astronaut Wally Funk, who’d never been in space before (the feel-good part of the story) and Oliver Daemon (a devilish name for a heavenly trip), a Dutch 18 year old, the youngest human to go into space.
Don’t get too excited about the kid, who seems nice enough, but he’s no science prodigy. His Dad paid for his ticket, albeit considerably less that the $28 million forked over by some anonymous billionaire who had a “scheduling conflict” (how do you have a scheduling conflict over a $28 million seat into space?) or more likely he just got cold feet. Money can’t buy you courage.
Though the weight of your wealth can now buy you weightlessness.
Oh, the rapture! We all have the spirit of Icarus within calling us to spread our wings and fly… like a dick. Remembe, Icarus flew too close to the sun, his wings melted and down to his death he plunged.
Such cautionary tales don’t appear to bother Blue Origin, a very commercial venture into “space tourism,” as are the other billionaire sperm war teams.
Master Daemon’s dad’s money does go to charity, but it is being funneled through Blue Origin’s space exploration and astronaut education *wings,* all tax write-offs, if Bezos actually paid taxes.
The real question being not who has the biggest dick, but who IS the biggest dick, Bezos is currently winning. Or at least get the popular vote.
Trying to take the lead again, Musky Elon’s wench Grimes (who swears her billionaire boyfriend doesn’t support her musical career, which sounds like a virtue-signaling side effect of sudden-onset affluenza) has announced that her baby-daddy is buying a planet (with Dogecoin?), a big round rock (bigger than Jupiter) for mutual pal, Philly rapper Lil Uzi Vert. So, will it be the Planet Uzi? Why not just call it Old Israeli Submachine Gun and rocket on?
Why not look to the stars, as the excessively outrageous meets the insensitively ridiculous… in space. What a waste.
In some ways, the Billionaire Dicks in Space Race reminds me of the Cockfight at the Baghdad Corral, which started similarly—with a lot of insensitive braggadocio—but wound up kicking off the deadly Iraqi invasion, occupation, “Shock and Awe,” war crimes, torture and ongoing Perma War.
Fortunately, the current Billionaire Cockfight in Space doesn’t involve the dropping of bombs or intentionally killing anyone… yet. However, even without the inevitable Military-Industrial Complex ties, the Sperm Wars in Space Race is a “war” in the making, and already very destructive symbolically, environmentally and economically.
It also just hurts my eyes and ears to see that little cock-rocket spew carbons and hear Jeff Dickface spew narcissistic nonsense.
Of course, Bezos’ Pecker is no stranger to public display, having exposed itself in various situations, as we revealed in our Spank ‘n’ Art Speakeasy Journal’s story of how National Enquirer’s David Pecker got a pic of Bezos Pecker.
But how many pics of Bezos’ Pecker did David Pecker pick?
Say that three times and you’ll fly to the moon.
So, here two (or three, counting the Virgin) ultra-wealthy nerds spending absurd amounts of money to drop their balls on the moon, their junk on Mars and their garbage throughout the galaxy. Any aliens who happen to be hanging around up there must think we’re trash.
It’s embarrassing… for humanity! In that spirit, I have offered (on Ken Silverstein’s Washington Babylon and F.D.R.) to give free sex therapy to any of these flyboys, if it’ll keep their dicks out of space. I feel a little silly offering something free to billionaires, and they certainly don’t deserve it, but if it’ll help humanity, I’ll help these douchebags feel better about their insecure dicks.
The funny thing is, none of these sperm-warring dicks have even shot their pricey loads very far into space, according to Neil DeGrasse Tyson, whom I had the pleasure of meeting at an Emmys party, where we chatted about the cosmos and bonobos, and no, he did not harass me; he was a total gentleman, though he put his arm around me (while Max put his arm around Mrs. Tyson).
All these billionaires should check out how the bonobos approach cockfighting, or as the primatologists call it, “penis-fencing.” Not only does the Bonobo Way of dick-fighting (along with rump-rubbing) keep the peace through the pleasure of sperm-war-powered male/male sex, it’s environmentally sustainable, fun for all and doesn’t cost a nickel.