Far out, man, the whole avoiding-hell racket is a cosmic con job! Sure, dodging the fiery furnace down the line might seem like the ultimate score, but zoom in, baby, zoom in. We’re talking about living, breathing, now, and the now is a cracked mirror reflecting a reality gone batshit. We’re strung out on this consumerist joyride, guzzling down fossil fuel Kool-Aid, all the while the icecaps are melting faster than a slug on a salt lick.

And the kicker? We ain’t even paying the goddamn tab. We’re pushing the bill onto the squares down the line, the ones who haven’t even hit puberty yet. Talk about a bad trip, man, that’s some intergenerational roach motel right there. We’re building our empires on quicksand, blinded by the flashing neon signs advertising the latest status symbol, while the whole damn platform starts to wobble and groan.

Word on the street is, the bill comes due eventually, and let me tell you, the interest rates on this ecological credit card are astronomical. Forget fiery pits, we’re talking about a future where the air is so thick you can chew it, and the water tastes like battery acid. And who gets to enjoy this dystopian Disneyland? Not the fat cats lining their pockets with green now, that’s for sure. It’s the kids, the ones who never asked for this joyride, who get stuck holding the bag of radioactive waste.

So, yeah, dodging hell might be the ultimate score, but the price of admission is living in a world that’s already half-melted and crumbling at the seams. We’re fiddling while Rome burns, man, and the flames are licking at our heels. Maybe it’s time to wake up from this consumerist coma, dig? Maybe it’s time to stop pushing the bill onto the next generation and start cleaning up the mess we’ve made. Otherwise, the only escape from this particular hell might be a one-way ticket to Mars… and even that ain’t guaranteed.