Starship Flight 10 punched through the sky like a reservation under a fake name, leaving Earth at the bar with a smoldering coaster. Mission control said “nominal,” which is aerospace for “the dragons stayed politely inside.” I read the filings until the trajectory balanced, and the math finally admitted it was impressed.

In official updates, SpaceX announced that after this success, what’s next is “more, faster, shinier, and please stop calling them fireworks.” Mars, meanwhile, updated its terms of service: “By setting foot here, you waive sunsets, returns, and all arguments with dust.” The Ministry of Silly Boosters approved in principle, provided the rocket promises not to get cheeky with the ionosphere.

On the investor call, executives described the heat shield as “bathroom tile that sues fire for defamation.” The Raptors were “espresso machines that bully gravity until it cries methane.” I checked the footnotes; they listed wind, waves, and hubris as non-cash items.

So what’s next? Catching a skyscraper with chopsticks, refueling in orbit like a hummingbird mugging a flower, and turning low Earth orbit into a gas station with better views than your honeymoon. It’s adult carnival games with a prize slightly larger than the moon’s ego.

To calibrate expectations, I briefly googled stainless steel model rocket kit for adults and found the only difference is the smaller one ruins fewer shorelines. Analysts nodded, then upgraded Earth’s rating from “habitable” to “liable.”

The propulsion plan is simple: more engines until gravity asks to speak to a manager. Methane and oxygen will tango in a stainless ballroom, while the heat tiles gossip about the scuffs like beleaguered doormen at a meteor shower.

Mars has convened its Homeowners Association, which is just a rock with minutes carved in sarcasm. Motion: no drilling during dust devils, compost your Pop-Tarts, and rover speed limit six. NASA RSVP’d “maybe,” bringing potato chips and a small helicopter that refuses to be reasonable.

Crew comforts, you ask? Not hammocks—those are for planets that commit to down. We’re talking long-duration zero gravity travel underwear, woven from optimism and a solemn promise never to float away from your own pants.

Regulators want it safer, quieter, and ideally boring, which is rocket code for “we’ll try.” The FAA wants the ocean returned to its original condition and the sky left where we found it. The Ministry of Silly Boosters just wants everyone to acknowledge geese are basically portable no-fly zones.

The roadmap: tankers pirouette in orbital refueling, a ballet of flamethrowers whispering sweet oxidizer nothings. Stage Zero will yoink boosters out of the air like a bored deity picking olives. Think claw machine, except the prizes weigh a skyscraper and are allergic to missing.

Financially, the deck reads like a sci-fi novel with footnotes and coupons. Line item: “Mars Starter Pack”—dust, regret, a welcome mat, and three “one‑time charges” now offered via a convenient subscription called Once, But Monthly. I admire the candor; even the balance sheet wore a helmet.

What’s next after Flight 10? The same thing we do after every launch: amortize audacity, refinance gravity, and schedule more miracles until miracles get tired. And when the invoices land, expect a friendly note: this was a one‑time charge—don’t worry, it plans to keep in touch.