Listen up, newly discovered planet suitable for sustaining human life. We got plans for you. Big plans.
Don’t like it? Tough. We’re important scientists from Earth. Traveled a long goddamned way to strut around your world holding these clipboards. Even brought a pack of interns just to look busy measuring stuff in the background. Cost $30 billion to transport them across the galaxy. Another $10 million for the interstellar measuring tape.
How much did you pay to get here again? Exactly.
Now, right where your younglings are frolicking under your 61 moons is where we’ll be erecting our high-end living community. Nice little sub-development cascading over these rolling hills. To achieve our vision we will need to bulldoze your village. It blocks the natural flow of the terrain, I’m afraid.
Rachel, I’m thinking we blow out this gaudy monolith for direct access to the horizon.
What’s that? This hideous tower houses your elder-alien kin? No problem. We’ll demolish it tastefully and replace it with something less obstructive. Because we’re evolved enough to appreciate stunning vistas.
Not like you three-fingered schlubs, with your dead eyes, gnashing teeth, and threatening appendages. You live inside heaping mounds of dirt. We need the sun on our face. The fresh air in our lungs, filtered through our helmets’ breathing apparatus.
And I want real trees — Brian, write that down — not these flailing spikes that have sprouted from the soil. They’re much too gauche, and lash dangerously close to our visors. Is it scientifically accurate to call this “soil?” Where’s our geologist? Fighting for his life? Well, don’t bother him now.
Anyway, see that dust field? That’ll be where we shop. Where we build a supermall boasting interstellar versions of our most elegant clothing designers. And at least two Sbarroses. As though we’d compromise fashion while we modernize this shitrock.
And is anyone in love with the color scheme? It’s far too fuchsia around here for my liking. Maybe tone it down to PMS 312… Doug, is that doable? I’m snapping my fingers at you, Doug. Wipe the melted skin from your exposed skull and show our alien friends the pantone pinwheel.
Moving on to your sprawling ocean — a beautiful, temperate, vent-warmed body of water containing nitrogen, methane, carbon dioxide, and various other chemicals required for Earth-like life — this will be where we’ll pee when we swim.
Make sure you have plenty of this water stuff around, Mork, because we’re gonna need it. For bathing, letting the kitchen faucet run over a single dirty bowl for thirteen minutes while we zone out, and, of course, depositing our bodily wastes.
Don’t know if you got the memo — we produce massive amounts of excrement. Especially when we’re exhausted from colonizing critical parts of your planet.
And if you want to meet a guy who’s full of crap 24/7, I can grab Dean for you! Where is Dean anyway? Putting up drywall? No? He’s been decapitated? Typical Dean.
OK, now we’re talking. Look at this spot. Perfect, just perfect. Right here is where we’ll start drilling. No clue what sort of rare minerals are buried beneath the surface of this planet, but odds are they’re gonna be shiny. Yes sir. Deep mining is a big part of our job here. We’ll probably screw up the hydrothermal core that makes this world habitable, but that’s colonization for you, am I right?
We’ll either break ground here or down the rock face a little bit. Haven’t decided yet. Don’t let that indecision throw you. Rest assured, we got big plans for your planet. Big frickin’ plans.
Now I’m not sure what this translucent dome is that you’ve summoned around my body, but that’s gone. Doesn’t fit in aesthetically. Somebody tell me why we need this constricting ball slowly crushing my torso? Not in my schematics, last time I checked.
Better get with program… new planet suitable… for… sustaining… human… life.