If I hear one more word about the wonderful marvelosity of coal-fired power stations, I’m firing the utterererer. “You’re fired,” I shall say, and I shall say it to him, no matter how lovely his head of melting orange tuna bake may be.
When I return for holidays on Earth, the first place I visit is the South Pole, mainly because I usually run into Sir David Attenborough filming a documentary there, not to mention everywhere else. And also, it’s melting – the Earth in general – and I don’t want to get my paws wet unnecessarily, not for the sake of a few days of glacier-calving anyway.
When are you coming to Mars, Sir David? When? Just because we have no discernible native creatures yet ready for your toney movietone newsy/doco thingys is no reason to shun us. Something is bound to turn up in the dust eventually, and eventually you’ll all be heading this way, won’t you, as the water laps your galoshes? Eventually.