Of course Mars knows, this means war

Everyone keeps asking, “What’s going on?” and I mumble, “Nothing,” because I’m holding a tight rein on my dire predictions these days.

I don’t want to be blamed for major riots and goosey pigeons around the courthouse.

But the other day I again heard the beckoning call of prize-winning journalism, which said, “You have to warn them about Mars,” and I nodded. “If nothing else, I’m duty bound,” I said.

So I’ll detail once more what you should know before you step outside today:

n First came those spiteful birds called Mississippi kites, easily recognized by nasty attitudes and little Confederate stars-and-bars on their tail feathers. They migrated here from Mars a few years back and since then have attacked and herded local college students into concentration classrooms, making it hard to explain academic freedom.

n In the same time frame, thousands of miles away in Tibet, a full scale eradication of that country’s main food supply took place when Mars aliens wearing padded pajamas and carrying weapons of mass litter dumped pictures of the Dalai Lama into the Tsangpo River, which contaminated the local fish industry, such as it was.

n And then finally, in my Colorado hometown, brewery workers posing as intelligent human beings accidentally dumped (they said, ha ha) 77,000 gallons of beer into a local creek, and made trout giddy as far away as Kansas City, fostering that memorable cry now familiar to all tipplers, “Leave the dishes in the sink, Ma. We’re partying tonight.”

What’s the result of these seemingly unrelated phenomena? Pandemonium, of course, and no small amount of chaos, because old men are wading into rivers in Colorado with tin cups and giant straws, while in Tibet fish are singing, “I choked to death on a Dalai Lama, hey bob-a-ree bop.”

But that’s not all. Because of Mississippi kites, demand for pith helmets and hard hats soared to unprecedented levels, replacing baseball caps worn backwards and resulting in shortages, price gouging, and an inflated economy.

The price tag for a college education went out of sight as students sacrificed their baggy pants, bare midriffs, and car keys in order to buy Dallas Cowboy football helmets autographed with a large X by the owner of the 1994-95 Super Bowl champions.

I tell you, friends (How can I state this without causing mass hysteria? Oh, I know…) MARTIAN INVADERS ARE HERE! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

But no, stay calm. We must heed the words of our knowledgeable political leaders when they say, “Huh?” And I propose a modest solution, as follows:

We must defend ourselves with undercover marshals, armed to the teeth and disguised as old men with tin cups and giant straws and students in pith helmets. As a public service, Rotary Clubs will fairly dole out franchises for straws and helmets.

As a second step we need to declare war on Mars, and it’s about time. For years we’ve put up with their posturing and evil rhetoric. Mainly, we must put an end to the threat of their weapons of mass litter. (No, Virginia, an asafetida bag won’t help.)

But you’re thinking, “War? Hey, I’m all for beating up Third World countries, but isn’t going to Mars a bit far?”

Well, let me ask you a question: Do you honestly believe we spent $10 billion to land a rocket on Mars just to look at colorful pictures of rocks? The CIA has already fired the first shot.

Of course, I’m talking here about a full-scale war, and it won’t come cheap. There will be battlefield casualties. But as supporters of the use of the chemical chlordane have said, “Sure, it’s going to kill some folks, but they’re probably dying of something else anyway.”

As you can see, I’ve given this matter a great deal of scholarly research in the last 10 minutes, and I’m willing to drop everything and undertake a federally funded study to send rockets to Mars filled with speeches by presidential candidates, the purpose being to lull the Martians to sleep so we can sneak up on them.

Incidentally, if you’re thinking of a token gratuity for my suggestions, I wear an extra large pith helmet. I have my own tin cup.

Bob Huber is a retired journalist living in Portales.