On that cold and distant planet one of them will strike it rich through a scheme selling shoulder cleaner — the populace will suddenly have cleaner shoulders after years of wiping their mouths on them (mouth-breathers must do this often). They can exist in a numb collective, all of them order stuff on the menu with “Can I get . . .” and leaving their shopping carts in the middle of the aisles. Even as their own herd thins due to excessive texting while driving they will still not have learned to properly spell, so their entire system of communication will revolve around abbreviations and smiley icons.
Isn’t it good Norwegian wood? (you’ll have to know the Beatles song to get the allusion).