Didn’t every kitten play cowboys and aliens and lemonade stands and baguettes with their siblings and neighbouring cats of all the lovely varieties under the Martian sun? I know I did.
So it was no surprise at all to find this gaggle of upstanding equines and not-terribly-wild westerners discussing the important thing in life: hats and their place in the synchronised scheme of things.
Also, tuna-flavoured lemonade – the next big thing at your nearest pretentious cafe – move over coconut butter latte frappe-cino with hundreds and thousands, your time is up.
I don’t know D’Arcy or Anthony personally, but the fact that they exchanged their spaceship here on Mars with some rogueish southerner from the Medusae Fossae Formation seems to follow a family pattern. Two of my actual friends, Cy and Clark, have already committed to the Red Canoe Cult – you can check them out enjoying a little angling in the Hale crater. They bear a remarkable resemblance to these two soon-to-be fishin’ fools.
In the dim dark long ago, this little cat owned a VW Bug. Red it was, and gorgeous, and I drove it to college and back each day. Sometimes, my dear mother, Mrs On Mars, would accompany me over to the city where we’d pay bills and otherwise enjoy a day out. It was, however, a lightweight small vehicle and was often buffeted by not-very-strong winds as we crossed the bridge from the northside to the seething metropolis that was my regional hometown in the – well, a while ago. Such adventures we had, eh Pip.
Furthermore, there is nothing nicer than a trip to the beach, a fish and chip lunch, and an ice-cream with your beloved. Enjoy.
Hello sports-a-rama fans, and it goes without saying that we say from Mars: Congratulations and Celebrations to Chloe Esposito, a true all-rounder. Go you good thing, as we say in the Martian classics. Wait, you’ve already been and gone – yippeekyay from far away!!!!!
At the Dairy Queen oh-so-long ago, in the intermission between Saturday night movies at the Rex Theatre, some boys would buy a soft drink with a famous name (rhymes with bloke), add the contents of a once famous headache powder (rhymes with hex) mix it up, and, gasp, drink it. It gave them a little high. That’s all I know, your magnificence.
Do I remember a late Friday night, early Saturday morning, circa 1981, when a young man and myself fenced our way up the hill at Rosalie, fallen palm fronds for our epees, silliness our favourite feeling as we danced through the night? Why, yes, I do, and I sometimes wonder where that young man ended up, apart from decades older. Well, actually, I know, and I also know that we’ll always have that Friday-Saturday in Rosalie, and I certainly hope the palm fronds recovered well. Touche, Michael.
I haven’t ridden a bicycle in many a long Martian year (not since high school, actually), but I heartily endorse those who do, as long as they stay out of the way of my RoverOverYou RoverMobile 3000a.
As for the selfie-centred, selfie-taking narcissists in Esther Williams formation, let’s simply nod our heads and wish them well, for soon enough their neediness will consume them, rather like a Martian dust storm during which one takes the opportunity offered by its handsome red cloudiness to RoverOver a few of them. Did I say that?