I would simply like to point out that Jibber Jabber is a preferred language at the Ye Olde Mars-y Tavern, Bistro, Grill & Tuna Tagine on the shores of the beautiful Erythraean Sea here on the fourth rock. Especially after midnight.
I once lived in a tiny house – turned out it was a cardboard box my loving Earthling servants had saved from their latest Amazon delivery for my amusement.
It had everything a feline could need: matching scratchworthy sofa, bed, and sofabed; climbing curtains in ancient, priceless Oriental silk, and a constant supply of tuna bites.
Alas, the Martian atmosphere played havoc with its recyclable doors and walls, and now my tiny house has renewed itself as a rustic red welcome mat at the entrance flap to my far more palatial Mars Manor where the tuna constantly bites.
The thing about the ocean is that, unless you’re under it, it can make you extremely seasick, and worried about what’s under it. I recall dreams, nay, nightmares of inundation not long before I rocketed off to Mars. My darling mother, Mrs On Mars, reassured me that it was simply the terror of space travel and my fear of being torn apart by G-forces when I clearly prefer C-forces (c for cat, obviously). Anyway, made it to Mars, found the ice, chipped some off and settled down with a Tuna Daquiri and some smoked eel pie (mmm, smoked eeellllllll). Chin, chin, or is it chihuahua, chihuahua? Whatever.