One Giant Leap for Men, One Peaceful Sleep for Womankind
Finally, a climate solution we can all get behind.
It started with a billionaire in a rocket and ended with a brilliant idea: let them go. Every few years, one of Earth’s richest men declares war on gravity and attempts to leave the planet like he’s spiritually above plumbing. Jeff Bezos built a penis-shaped rocket and called it innovation. Richard Branson floated through zero gravity like a man who’s never wiped his own countertops. Elon Musk tweets about Mars daily, despite never successfully navigating a relationship on Earth.
And while the public cries, “That money should be used to solve world hunger,” I beg to differ. I think we should fund them. Applaud them. Give them snacks for the trip. Let them test the gear, map the terrain, and once the tech is stable — begin the great export. Not just the billionaires. All of them. We send men to space not because we hate them, but because Earth has had enough character development and the sequel needs less noise.
I can just see it now. The rocket launches. The boosters fall away. Earth exhales. Not in rage, not in grief: in relief. This isn’t vengeance. This is risk management. Send 80% of men into space and you don’t just create quiet. You create possibility.
Below is a non-exhaustive but spiritually accurate list of what happens next:
Global noise pollution drops 68%, mostly due to a sharp decline in unsolicited opinions about crypto and squats.
True crime podcasts quietly retire. There’s simply no new material.
Women walk home at night listening to music instead of curating a murder prevention playlist.
The phrase “what do you bring to the table?” dies in the vacuum of space.
Porn sites finally introduce plot, lighting, and consent that isn’t whispered like a threat.
Birth rates decline. So do femicides. The Earth says: worth it.
Dating apps collapse. Not because of coding, but of peace.
The gym becomes a safe space. You can squat without being filmed, corrected, or sexually assessed by a man named Kyle.
Politicians argue about policy instead of whether women should have rights during retrograde.
Clits get found. Not just touched — understood.
The air feels softer. You sleep through the night for the first time since Year 8.
When someone asks where all the noise went, you say, simply: We launched the problem into orbit.
Of course, not every man will be sent to space immediately. We’re not tyrants. We’re curators. There will be a vetting process: part airport security, part Love Island elimination, part divine intervention. Think of it like jury duty, but for cosmic removal.
Here are a few current criteria for orbital eligibility:
Has used the phrase “playing devil’s advocate” to defend wage gaps, Andrew Tate, or genocide.
Once said “she weaponised her emotions” because she cried after being cheated on.
Owns a podcast. Or has said “we should start a podcast” more than once.
Refers to women as “females” like he’s narrating a wildlife doc.
Thinks therapy is a cult but astrology is dangerous.
Called his ex crazy but can’t remember her birthday, love language, or face.
Claimed to be a feminist but only follows bikini models with captions like “softness is strength.”
Insisted on splitting the bill after making you cry at Nando’s.
Exceptions will be rare. Men who demonstrate emotional fluency, unpaid domestic labour, and non-ironic cardigan use may be allowed to stay. All others: report to Launchpad B. Your booster awaits.
Naturally, there will be questions. Mostly from men. So here’s a selection, fielded live from the launchpad:
Q: “But not all men?” Correct. Just the statistically significant ones. This isn’t exile. It’s quality control.
Q: “Where will we live in space?” Ask Elon. You worshipped him. Now live with him.
Q: “Can we return once we’ve evolved?” Of course — after the 12-step ‘Basic Human Empathy’ programme, three public apologies, and one group chat shift.
Q: “Will there be women in space with us?” Only those who said “I can fix him.” They’re in rehab.
Q: “Is this misandry?” No. It’s urban planning.
Q: “What if I identify as a good guy?” Early rocket.
Q: “What about Jordan Peterson?” He’s already been sent. Mars rejected him on arrival.
Earth becomes a soft-lit fever dream of liberation. Women jog in crop tops without calculating escape routes. Every group project runs smoothly. Conflict resolution becomes “shared Google Doc.” Hobbies flourish. Bread gets baked. The birds return — literally, because their mating calls are no longer drowned out by unsolicited gym grunts and men shouting “relax” at women in customer service.
We write books instead of chasing closure. Bathrooms become temples. No one asks “are you sure you want to eat that?” ever again. Performative masculinity fades. Gregs stop pretending to love war documentaries just to avoid crying in therapy. We reclaim the world with softness, rage, and high-speed internet.
We’re not rebuilding without men. Just updating the terms. They can reapply for citizenship after reading bell hooks, completing shadow work, and locating the clit without Google Maps.
This isn’t hate. It’s hope.
I’m not saying all men are rubbish. I’m saying we’ve been living in a landfill pretending it’s a city. For centuries, women have patched egos they didn’t bruise and raised sons who grow up to call boundaries “manipulation.” We were told to soften. To shrink. To compromise. And when we didn’t, we were labelled difficult.
So fine. Go to space. Call it Bro-topia. Build your algorithm colony. Just don’t ask us to come with you.
We’re busy. Building a world that doesn’t run on fear. Where silence isn’t survival. Where boundaries don’t need a lawyer. We don’t hate men. We’re just finally moving on.
And we wish you the very best.
From a safe, emotionally regulated distance of 238,855 miles.
My Mom tells stories about growing up on a farm in the 1940s and she has a lot of stories of mean roosters that ended up in the soup pot. The good tempered ones that did security duty and didn’t beat up the hens got to live and pass on their DNA. Mean/useless ones went to kitchen camp…
I’m about to restack. Fingers crossed my male subscribers have a sense of humour (I reckon they fit the criteria anyway!)