Rising sea levels. Encroaching deserts. A growing chasm between myself and the woman who once pledged to love me faithfully ‘til death do us part. These are among the lies the so-called “tolerant left” wishes to foist upon us in their unbridled attempts to control our lives.

The eggheads over at NASA expect us to believe that last year was the fourth hottest on record, and yet a polar vortex of Arctic proportions has descended upon my very own bedroom. The marriage counselor told us that natural variations in temperature were to be expected in a relationship as long as ours, and given that the planet has existed for several billion years longer I can only assume the same principles would apply.

A man can’t turn around these days without hearing about a “green new deal,” but what about the great deal I got on that 1998 Pontiac Firebird? The kids can settle for community college, Barbara, because this was the kind of a bargain that only comes along once in a lifetime. Besides, if you expect me to believe that we have ten years left until the world implodes, you can bet that I’m going to be spending that time in the least efficient car possible.

And to those who ask me whether I want to leave behind a liveable world for my children I say this: which one of my children? The younger one is a little light on his feet, and forcing him into a post-apocalyptic battle for water amid a Mad Max-esque hellscape would probably go a long way toward toughening the boy up.

Oh, you want me to reduce, reuse and recycle? Give me a break. The only kind of renewable I’m interested in is the renewing of our wedding vows, which a certain screechy elitist seems to think would be “disingenuous” and “a waste of everyone’s time.” In my defense, I would try and do more to salvage this relationship but “salvaging” sounds an awful lot like recycling to me.

“But sir” they say, riding in the passenger seat on the way home from soccer practice “you’re destroying our one and only home.” Listen kid, if piles of garbage, invasive species and the faint odor of tailpipe exhaust is good enough for my home, then it’s good enough for the polar bears. Even if it means that your mother has to take you to stay with your aunt until we figure some things out.

This country was built on a simple, beautiful promise: cram as much of God’s beautiful creation as possible into the churning maw of consumerism until you can retire somewhere with the tiny umbrellas in the drinks. The country that I knew and loved was a vast, methane-ridden expanse of opportunity, bereft of climate scientists living large in their fuel-efficient yachts. The America that I know is a place where you can work hard, play by the rules, and eventually climb the ranks of a company that blows the tops off mountains like some fantastic, cartoon super-villain.

If the tree-huggers and their cabal of goose-stepping undergraduates come to my achingly empty house and lecture me about the charcoal grill my grandfather fought in Koreatown to protect, then boy oh boy do they have another thing coming.

I love you more than life itself, Barbara. Please come home.