Cyclists: they’re a hardy, though sometimes argumentative and clannish crowd. Nonetheless, we applaud their efforts to champion, and bring, carbohydrates into the healthy dietary choice fold. Or something like that. Or else, they simply want to go to a lovely cafe after their ride and pack on the kilojoules. If they play their carbs right, they can surely devise a route to take in all three destinations, n’est pas so?
While I’m not given to effusive celebrations here on the red planet at this time of year, I fully appreciate the excitement gathering speed on the third rock.
I well remember Mama and Papa and my sibling, Sibmo, enjoying each other’s company way, way back when we’d dip a delicate paw into the backyard pool before emptying it so we could stretch out and sleep on those cool, cool yule tiles in the midst of tropical summer heatwaves.
And is there anything more sublime than Bill Evans on the old CD player as you barbecue your tuna steaks and sip a delicate and frothy tunanog while swaying along to one of the coolest dudes in the jazziverse? I think there is not, my dearest friends, so I’m off to get in some practice before the big day in my rainbow robes of wondrous, all-inclusive hue.
Meanwhile, let’s all send healing vibes of peaceful energy from wherever we may be to surround and suffuse little mother Earth with kindness and the calming balm of love. I mean it, dudes, let’s start vibing the positive before the place does itself an irreversible injury, okay?! Okay-a-rooney.
Here on Mars, there’s little space for large kitchens, but the space we have we dedicate to delicacies close to the hearts of all self-respecting Martians: tuna toast, tuna pie, tuna salad, tuna bake (very hot this close to the Sun), tuna fritters, tuna pizza, and so on, and occasionally, a lovely side of totally, totally Martian red Truss tomatoes with deep-fried tuna steaks. Bon appetunatit!!!
It could be the chocolate fondue fountain, it could be the incessant grating of carrots, it could be the groans from Apocalypse Soon, or it could be that Dr On Mars has been watching far too many ancient Greco-Roman-Kebab-a-rama-BBQ-tuna-esque tall tales beamed in by satellite from the back of a semi-trailer three-point-five kilometres south of Broken Hill. Just sayin’. Soooo, anyway, enjoy your Easter Sunday, friends, and all the hot cross bunnies you can eat, or kiss better – they’re crabby little buggers, aren’t they?