In a crowded press conference held entirely underwater, Atlantic coral reefs announced they will be reducing growth past 2°C warming, citing burnout, boundary-setting, and the need for fewer jet-ski-related microaggressions. A stony coral in bifocals clicked through slides while a parrotfish took questions and, mistakenly, two microphones.

Scientists confirmed the reefs’ message with the kind of grim cheer usually reserved for tax audits and group projects. The data say: once we nudge past 2°C, reefs stop acting like limestone bodyguards and start acting like decorative coasters, and the p-values need to phone a therapist and maybe a second statistician.

Historically, reefs kneecap storm waves, which is the polite geophysical way of saying they’re bouncers in barnacle tuxedos. Remove them and every swell is a VIP wave on a bachelorette party, teetering toward the shoreline in matching sashes that say “Sea Level, But Make It Formal.”

Coastal cities responded with plans that range from “hope the tide forgets our address” to “hire the Moon for HR mediation.” The official toolkit now includes sandbags promoted to senior leadership and a memo stating all gulls must wear little reflective vests to increase morale.

Homeowners, whose basements just learned to speak fluent brine, are panic-buying portable flood barrier door shield like it’s pumpkin spice but damp. One resident reported that his porch “took a bath without him,” which historically means someone will soon Google how to waterproof a doormat and a sense of foreboding.

Tourism boards, bless their brochure-thin optimism, rolled out a rebrand: the bleached reef is now Minimalist Marine Sculpture, an immersive zero-color wellness retreat for fish who hate spoilers. Each snorkel ticket includes complimentary existential dread and a soundscape of wheezing parrotfish.

Fossil fuel executives expressed concern, which is Latin for “sent a letter to a senator and a fruit basket to a hurricane.” One CEO said, “We love reefs! Some of our best rigs are named after reefs,” which is like naming your dog Salad and feeding it steaks.

Diplomats revisited the temperature targets. At 1.5°C, the reef is a tired librarian asking for quiet, stern but functioning. At 2°C, the librarian is a cardboard cutout. At 3°C, the library is confetti and the waves are doing a TED Talk titled “What If I Just Keep Coming?”

Meanwhile, tech bros proposed printing replacement reefs out of artisanal chalk and NFTs that double as tide coupons. A startup promised an app to “Uber for Waves,” in which an algorithm decides which neighborhoods are hydrologically cringe while selling you a solar-powered smart sump pump at 3 a.m. with push notifications that say, “Moist yet?”

Fish formed a union demanding fair currents, a living salinity, and time off for spawning without helicopter tourism. Nemo updated his LinkedIn to “Open to Opportunities Above the Thermocline,” which is fish for “please don’t make me commute by rip current.”

In classic methods-section mood, researchers noted the limits: the experiment couldn’t isolate the effect of vibes, sample size was smaller than the ocean, and the confounder was a planet on hotplate. As Casey Mercer would remind you, it isn’t a breakthrough unless something actually breaks through, and waves just did—into the gift shop.

Asked when they’ll come back, the reefs auto-replied with a seashell emoji and a timeline measured in stubbornly patient centuries. Until then, the Out of Office stands—because when the bouncers leave, the party becomes the pool, and the pool is your street, and the dress code is flippers.