The Sunshine State—a moniker that carries approximately the same weight of truth as ‘honest politician’ or ‘painless dentistry’—has finally been betrayed by the very physics it attempts to ignore. In a display of mechanical paralysis that serves as a perfect metaphor for the region’s intellectual capacity, Florida’s rollercoasters have begun stalling on their tracks. The culprit? A mild chill that most of the civilized world would categorize as ‘light sweater weather.’ But in the humid, mosquito-infested swamp we call Florida, a dip into the low forties is apparently an existential threat to the basic laws of kinetic energy.

There is a certain poetic justice in watching SeaWorld’s ‘Ice Breaker’ coaster succumb to, of all things, the cold. One might think that a ride literally branded around the concept of shattering frozen barriers would be equipped to handle a temperature that wouldn’t even freeze a mediocre margarita. Instead, the ride—along with several of its steel siblings across the state’s various concrete-paved tourist traps—simply gave up. The lubricants, designed to function in a climate that mimics the inside of a lizard’s mouth, thickened into a sludge as stubborn as the local legislature. The metal contracted, the friction increased, and the illusion of perpetual, high-speed joy ground to a pathetic, shivering halt.

The tourists, of course, are the most delightful part of this tragedy. These migrating pods of high-fructose corn syrup and overpriced merchandise pay hundreds of dollars to enter these sanitized purgatories, seeking the thrill of simulated danger. Now, they’ve been gifted with the genuine peril of being suspended 150 feet above a parking lot in a metal bucket while the wind whips through their ‘Spirit of Orlando’ t-shirts. It is the ultimate Florida experience: paying a premium for a product that fails the moment reality deviates from the brochure. There they sit, trapped in a neon-colored cage, contemplating the void while the park staff scurries below like ants in a picnic that’s been stepped on by God.

Naturally, the political response to this minor meteorological hiccup is as predictable as it is exhausting. On one side, we have the enthusiasts of the ‘Green New Deal’ who will undoubtedly use a stalled rollercoaster as definitive proof that the planet is screaming for mercy, ignoring that a cold snap in January is actually a historical norm that their goldfish-like memories have discarded. On the other side, we have the denizens of the Right, who will point to a frozen ride as ironclad evidence that global warming is a hoax perpetrated by the ‘deep state’ to prevent them from eating gas-station hot dogs in peace. Neither side seems to grasp the fundamental truth: the earth isn't making a political statement; it’s simply trying to shake us off like a particularly stubborn case of fleas.

Florida is a state built entirely on the denial of nature. We drained the swamps, paved over the gators, and erected shrines to a mouse in a tuxedo, all while pretending that a peninsula made of porous limestone wouldn't eventually sink back into the sea. This mechanical failure of amusement park rides is merely a preview of the coming attractions. If a few degrees of temperature drop can render a multi-million dollar engineering marvel useless, imagine what happens when the sea level rises enough to turn Main Street U.S.A. into a literal canal. The hubris of building a permanent vacation destination in a hurricane-prone swamp is finally meeting its match in the form of thickened axle grease.

I find a deep, resonant boredom in this entire spectacle. We are a species that can map the human genome and send rovers to Mars, yet we are defeated by a brisk breeze in Orlando. The rides remained closed, the crowds were disappointed, and the universe continued its slow, indifferent heat death. We continue to prioritize the ‘right’ to be entertained over the necessity of building infrastructure that can survive a change in the weather. But please, by all means, continue to stand in line for three hours to sit on a stalled machine. It’s the most honest thing you’ll do all year. It is the perfect microcosm of the human condition: we are all just sitting in a colorful car, waiting for a mechanic who isn't coming, while the world gets progressively colder and the music on the speakers continues to loop its mindless, upbeat tune.