In a bold new plan to keep Earth from becoming a pinata at a meteor toddler’s birthday, space agencies announced that removing just 50 objects from orbit would cut the danger from space junk in half. That’s right: the universe is basically your garage, and the problem is not everything—just the 50 items plotting against you.

Scientists described the 50 worst offenders the way suburban HOA boards describe unmowed lawns: menacing, unsightly, and one stiff breeze from turning into interpretive shrapnel. Each is a retired hunk of hardware now doing the orbital equivalent of loitering outside a 7-Eleven.

The list includes dead rocket stages the size of despair, satellites that retired early to focus on their passion for spinning, and a mysterious panel that has been orbiting since 1978 and refuses to explain itself. Also present: one bolt with delusions of grandeur and a jury summons.

To rank them, engineers created brackets labeled Most Likely To Puncture A Billionaire, Most Chaotic Neutral, and Senior Superlatives: Best Hair. The winners were selected using a rigorous method known as ‘dear god look at that thing.’ It beat out the previous method, ‘close one eye and hope.’

Demonstrations began immediately. Teams wheeled out orbital debris grabber net prototypes, which look like someone mated a butterfly catcher with a forklift and taught it passive-aggressive karate. The pitch: scoop up the cosmic delinquents before they enroll others in a multilevel marketing scheme called Explosive Unplanned Disassembly.

The modeling was equally scientific. Researchers ran millions of simulations, then a few more to make the p-values less skittish. The result: a tidy curve showing that removing 50 brutes turns orbital roulette into orbital Go Fish, which only occasionally ends with your satellite learning to juggle itself.

Politicians immediately unveiled the Adopt-a-Shard program, where citizens can sponsor a piece of junk and receive monthly photos of it not doing anything. For an extra fee, you can name one Shardy McShardface and pretend it went to college.

In response, the Astronauts Union issued a statement requesting hazard pay, therapy lizards, and fewer workplace meteors. They also asked management to stop calling their helmets ‘face thimbles’ and to quit storing space wrench sets in the glovebox of the International Space Station.

Meanwhile, the private sector launched late-night infomercials for DIY satellite deorbit thruster kit, filmed in front of a studio audience of deeply anxious insurance actuaries. For three easy payments and two complicated ones, you too can send a flying toaster on a dignified plunge.

Critics argue that removing 50 objects doesn’t fix the systemic problem: we keep tossing more things into orbit like it’s a cosmic coat rack that can also stab you. In response, officials proposed a mandatory ‘Are You Sure?’ pop-up before any launch that requires a sincere apology to Newton.

Philosophers weighed in, saying the plan is a metaphor for modern life—most of your chaos is caused by 50 things you swear you’ll handle next weekend. The rest is just glitter: too small to see, somehow everywhere, vibrationally malicious.

Next month, the cleanup begins with a very brave tugboat that is technically a cube and emotionally a Labrador. If all goes well, space will be half as stabby, and the cosmic yard sale sign will read: 50 Items Removed, Everything Else ‘Gently Used, May Haunt You Forever.’