. . . ENDLESS SUMMER . . .
. . . the new marketing blitz for the global warming heatwave.
Doesn't sound so bad.
You can crisp yourself year round.
Don't even have to go to the beach.
Just stand in the place that you are, like the song said.
You don't even have to turn off your air conditioning. That shit'll break down soon enough, it wasn't built for this kind of action, let it go, also like the song said.
Every tree catches fire. Rumor has it that most set themselves on fire as a final fuck you to humans. Can't blame 'em. It's tough, but I see where they're coming from.
No need to get off the plane. The runway has melted, and the landing gear has fused with the runway . . . no need to board the plane. No place to escape. Maybe Antarctica? Nah, it's too cold. Everything's so extreme. Too late for 'climate centrism' I guess, ha ha ha.
You know what I think?
I think that the people who denied climate change for so long must've been clandestine Extremist Beach Bums who just wanted scorching swimsuit weather forever. Creationism, the Oil Lobby, far right politics-these were just pretentious cover-ups for the idiotic dreams of lamebrain dipshits who think voluntarily lying out in the sun for hours and hours is a non-stupid way to pass the time.
Now we all get to cook.
Most insects'll cease to swarm. It's too damn hot to swarm. The real tough ones'll persevere-they've been indoctrinated by insectoid hustle culture social media, so they just keep grinding and buzzing through the Big Burn. Gotta make that honey. Gotta build that anthill. Gotta feed the Queen, my bug dudes. Worker ants keep on attempting suicide by jumping into ant lion pits . . . only to find that the ant lions have all cooked off. Mosquitos bite people only to explode from drinking boiling blood. Harsh realm, my bug dudes!
Deserts just, like, quit. It's weird. I'm really not sure how to describe it. Just one day they didn't show up. In their place, we did get all these open air shopping centers, with plenty of great shopping and dining options. Starbucks. Cheesecake Factory. There's this new diamond retailer. Indoor shooting ranges with the deluxe accommodations for practicing with .50 caliber armor piercing rifles, person-portable rail guns, and rocket propelled grenades. A phony 'Irish' bar and family restaurant. One of the brand name pizza buffet outfits. The only downside is that employees and customers keep spontaneously combusting.
On the radio, Weird Al's parody of Ray Parker, Jr. 's Ghostbusters is a hit-"Combusting DOESN'T make me feel good!"
Antarctica'll melt down. Lovecraftian ruins of primeval monster cities will be exposed. Giant rubbery monsters will lumber up from labyrinthine depths. Cthulhu'll squint into the blazing sun and be like, "Fuck me, this shit is hot and bright as fuck, dude, I'm going back down. Fuck this shit, dude!" Cthulhu and his entourage'll go back into the Deepest Dankest Downstairs of All Times . . . but the heat will find them, too, causing them to bubble and flow and meltdown in the most spectacular practical special efx display since John Carpenter's The Thing-what fun!
In the fullness of time, terrorists and dictators and doomsday militias and Fascists and religious fundamentalists and warmongers and torturers and secret police and Nazis and serial killers and assorted white supremacists will all get on a gigantic Zoom call to coordinate a Worldwide Atomic Annihilation Festival, but when they go to press the button . . . nothing happens. Jesus and Buddha and Satan appear in the sky, and speaketh, saying, "No, you shit stains don't get to end this on your terms. We say you cook." The genocidal scumbags in question go crazy from the heat, and most die in an orgy of cannibalism-it's very Fulci-with the rest deliriously wandering off in all directions to dehydrate alone or in small groups.
In the end, heat dies of heat stroke.
It's a tough scene.
POST CREDITS SCENE: Inside the long abandoned Florida governor's office, we see all these cockroaches. They're not moving. They're not yet dead. They ate the last paper and glue products they could scavenge, and now they're all just sitting as still as possible, trying to hold on to those last calories. A couple of the cockroaches are having a heated debate about the pros and cons of the paperless all-digital office paradigm. The cockroach arguing in favor of the paperless office obviously catches all kinds of hell from its fellows but makes some interesting points. Just as the debate begins to turn a corner . . . just when pro and con seem about to reach some middle ground . . .
. . . the calories run out . . .
