To
Go Where No Man Will Ever Go
(Yeah, I'm in a mood. Sue me.)
Here's why the human race
will never reach the stars: We're genetically
compromised
by our life spans and our breeding habits.
We are, in essence, the rabbits of the
universe. (For now I'm ignoring the fact
that our little sacks of meat are perilously
fragile outside the troposphere so any
talk of exporting same to other planets
deserves as much serious attention as garden
fairies.)
Look at us. (And I'm basically talking
about Americans here. The rest of the industrialized
world has basically got their shit more-or-less
together.) We're
so collectively ignorant that a modest
contingent is seriously considering appointing
Donald Trump
as the
Guy Who
Pushes the
Big Red Button. This is because we spend
inordinately greater amounts of time spoiling
our kids
with the latest consumer
widget
than we do ensuring their safe and secure
futures by intently studying
government's every move. Especially
the right side of the Congressional aisle
which seems to be mostly populated
by nematodes and carpet remnants.
As a space-faring species we'd ideally
have long life spans. I mean thousands
of years instead of this measly "three
score years
and ten"
albatross impeding our carotid blood flow.
Luxuriously long life spans would give
us plenty of time to study and observe
the
known
universe,
perhaps
even live long enough to survive a long,
lonely voyage through the seemingly endless
streams of dark matter on the celestial
road to other planets.
As
it is, we get a few salad
years where our
minds
function
at warp factor ten and then we get tenure,
sew patches on the elbows of our jackets,
and relax to bathe in our modestly
accumulated
amounts of respect
while we wait for our Social Security check
and the
inevitable
myocardial infarction. If we're lucky.
An ideal space-faring species would also
devote minimal time to child-rearing, pooting
out just
enough replacements to grow the population
without having to war over the available
resources. Putting the womb into overdrive
as a result of bronze-age directives has
left we homo sapiens muddying the waters
that we all must drink. And lately that
mud contains
ever-increasing amounts of BP-approved
radioactive contaminants.
We talk about genetically modifying organisms,
eventually ourselves, but while we're stomping
out the vast plethora of genetic defects
(Thanks, God, for so carelessly assembling
our sex-Legos
that Republicans now have a new demographic
to fear monger.) we might also
consider zapping the gene that
makes
us
so insanely
acquisitive
that we end up watching, in horrified
delight, programs like "Hoarders" and saying
to ourselves
"Well,
that'll never
happen to me. Oh, look! A gardening tool
decorated with the state vegetable of all
fifty states, which also doubles as a truss
and
a coffee
maker.
And it comes
in fourteen
decorator colors!
Let's get collect them all!"
What I'm suggesting is that we quit betting
on the stars, or God's right hand, for
mankind's ultimate
destination and spend more time on keeping
this good old Earth clean and green.
Happy Towel Day, everybody!
=Lefty=
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