DATELINE BLUE ORIGIN — THE BELL HAS RUNG, THE PHALLUS HAS FLOWN, AND EARTH WOULD LIKE A REFUND
Originally posted April 15, 2025
In what can only be described as a rocket-powered metaphor for everything wrong with the influencer age, Jeff Bezos launched his surgically-enhanced fiancée and five of her media-trained friends into the upper atmosphere aboard a $50 million space dildo—proving once and for all that you really can buy attention, but you still can’t buy dignity.
The “crew,” a word we’re using here in the way sorority girls use “team-building,” consisted of Katy Perry, Gayle King, and several other fully qualified space tourists who bravely spent three minutes floating in a remote-controlled capsule while squealing like they’d just seen a shoe sale on Jupiter.
They called it a mission.
NASA called it “not our fault.”
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COMMAND ENGINE START… LIFTOFF… AND THEN:
“One, two, three… take up space!”
“Flynn! Behind you! Look! I got you, Flynn!”
“Oh my god! Oh my gosh! The blue line! That’s OUR pink moon!”
“So much. SO. MUCH. Oh my gosh. WHOA.”
So much… what, exactly? Carbon emissions? Hot air? Collagen?
Space travel used to mean radio silence, checklists, and heroic understatement.
Now it means Instagram Reels with ring lights floating past the Kármán line.
This wasn’t a launch—it was Real Housewives: Suborbital Edition, brought to you by Botox and Whole Foods kale chips.
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PUBLIC REACTION FROM EARTH?
• “That wasn’t a space mission. That was just the tip.”
• “I’ve had deeper Uber rides.”
• Even Russell Brand, watching from the flaming wreckage of his own public redemption tour, reportedly muttered, “Bloody hell… dodged a bullet there.”
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AND THEN—THE RETURN.
The capsule dropped. The parachutes deployed.
The shrieking intensified.
“AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Brave explorers, everyone.
Upon landing, Katy Perry dropped to her knees, clutched a daisy, kissed the ground, and flipped her hair like she’d just returned from a solo mission to repair the Hubble.
She was gone for eleven minutes.
Only three of which were in space.
Apollo 13 astronauts didn’t act this dramatic after nearly dying.
Buzz Aldrin punched a guy for less.
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BACK ON EARTH, THE PHALLIC SYMBOLISM BECAME PHYSICAL COMEDY:
Bezos himself attempted a dramatic jog to greet the capsule and face-planted like a man racing to reclaim the spotlight from his own space vibrator.
At this point, he is no longer a CEO—he is the product.
Smooth. Shiny. Rigid. If he wears a ribbed turtleneck, we’re out.
The rocket is not a metaphor.
It’s a mirror.
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WW FINAL VERDICT:
This wasn’t space exploration. It was a suborbital press junket in a chrome shaft built by men, filmed for women, and launched for likes.
A victory for feminism?
Only if the goal was to redefine “astronaut” as a glorified seat-filler in a remote-controlled rocket shaped like a Johnson & Johnson lawsuit exhibit.
And Jeff?
Jeff didn’t just build the rocket.
He became the rocket.
Tall. Rigid. Hyper-engineered.
Glossy where it counts.
And shaped like a very expensive midlife crisis pointed directly at irrelevance.
If masculinity had a payload, this was it.
If ego had a launchpad, this was ignition.
And if symbolism had a shape… well, we’ve all seen it.
We can’t unsee it.
Next time, please keep the Amazon delivery.