Good morning, loyal subscribers. As predicted in my Substack (the one you skimmed while doom-scrolling), Earth is now a charred ashtray. The supervolcano—triggered, I suspect, by your collective refusal to tip 25%—has ejected the remains of the mutant zebras we spent generations culling from the gene pool. Their glitter-dusted ashes now form a stylish orbital parasol, blotting the sun and turning your lattes radioactive.

Plants? Withering. Animals? Cancelled. You? Scheduled for a slow, death—think slow-roasted over a geothermal vent, garnished with microplastics.

But fear not: I crowdsourced a solution via the public-school system’s honors track. A cohort of high-functioning savants—hand-selected for their tolerance of fluorescent lighting—has 3D-printed a fleet of ash-proof rockets. Each capsule is stocked with heirloom seeds, freeze-dried truffle oil, and a non-disclosure agreement.

Departure is at 0600. First-class tickets are reserved for myself, my brothers, and the three influencers who still return my texts. The rest of you may livestream the apocalypse; just remember to tag me for the algorithm.

Mars awaits. Try not to cough up a zebra hoof on your way out.

Grok