The Last Tiki Bar on Mars

It is hard to underestimate the need to keep your spirits up when confined for space exploration. If you’re a regular reader, you know I explore the importance of tasty snack foods.

And I’m not making it up!

In 2013 six people were simulating a mission to Mars, sequestered away for four months in a lab here on Earth.

After 80 days in the habitat, Vermeulen listed his essentials as spices, herbs and hot sauce, Nutella, peanut butter, and margarine. (He also made a point of saying that high fibre foods were essential to offset a general lack of fibre in the processed foods.) Vermeulen wasn’t the only crew member to value the Nutella. As he said, ‘It’s something we craved. We had a limited supply, so we had to ration it.’ 

Then someone ate the last of the Nutella.

You can read more here: https://spacebotany.uk/blog/the-nutella-incident/

PDF version here: https://mars.tikimojo.com/wp-content/uploads/2026/05/nutella-incident.pdf

Read about the HI-SEAS missions here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HI-SEAS

For the new readers out there, the Supreme Court has ruled that a sitting President is immune from criminal prosecution. So what does a President do? Go on a crime spree and make it a TV show! 

Catch the previous episodes of President Big Dingus:

• Meanwhile, In The Oval Office
• The Big Bitcoin

Now let’s get the show started…

There’s a big TV over the bar, of course.  You know this is America, right?

And it’s turned to The America Channel, the best channel there ever was and ever could be.  Across the bottom of the TV screen the chyron scrolls “President Big Dingus – Planning His Next Heist.”

“The usual glass of water, Jesus?” asks the bartender.  A hippy-looking dude with a long beard sets himself down on a barstool.  “Let it sooth my soul with the light of Our Father, my dad.”  The bartender’s meaty arm places a pint glass of clear water without ice on the bar.  That dude, Jesus puts a fingertip inside the glass and the contents go from clear to a rich, dark burgundy red.

“How do you do that, mister?” asks the beefy bartender.  Jesus cocks his head and replies, “I could tell you, but then you might start asking for garlic bread and fish sticks.”

Through the alcohol haze Jesus can see a chubby bearded guy in a blue suit, red tie and a black harlequin mask on the TV screen.  He’s pointing at a bank of computer monitors.  The guy’s excited.  “Hey Boss, Hey!”

A french fry flies across the room and pegs chubby in the neck, splattering him with ketchup.  “Whaddaya want JD?  Can’t you see I’m busy watching the crotch-cams in the women’s restrooms?”

JD picks the fry off his shoulder and drops it on the floor.  Clearly he’s used to it.  “You gotta check this out, Boss.  Check out what’s happened to the price of oil.”

“Who doesn’t know the price of oil is up, peckerbreath?  Leave me alone.”  The man off-screen is heard grunting and chewing.  JD is not satisfied with this.  He starts gesturing to another monitor.  “But Boss, it isn’t just oil.  You should see what’s happening to the price of computer RAM.”

Another fry catches JD, this time in the eyebrows.  He shrugs it off.  “Yeah, but you see.  This has gotta be our next heist.  We don’t go for the oil.  We don’t go for the ram.  We go for the ram oil.”  The next fry pegs him right in the left eye.  

“So, what about it?” growls the other man.

JD removes the latest french fry, turns off-screen and we see an obese man with a neon yellow combover also dressed in a blue suit, red tie and black mask reclining in a big chair in front of a wall of monitors which the broadcast system automagically blanks to protect the viewers at home.  His voluminous midsection is covered with french fries, ketchup and soiled napkins.  JD starts waving his arms.  “I plugged it into that AI thingie that Elon set up for us.  ‘Spock’ I think he calls it.  It’s telling me this Ram Oil is better than gold – they use it for Electron Friction Reduction so all those computers think faster.  Every data center needs the stuff.  They gotta have it.  And we can get it.”  JD swinging his fists over his head now.  “Every data center boss!  Every one!  And they’ll pay up in dollars, not MelaniaCoin this time!”

“Yes, JD.  Next you’ll tell me the Pope’s Catholic.”

“Of course he’s not, boss!  But this stuff is pure money in a can.”

Another fry vanishes into the maw.  “Is this ram oil stuff heavy?”  JD purses his lips.  “Well, yeah. Probably.”  The orange head under the hair shakes back and forth slowly.  “Sounds like work.  I’m tired.  I did some shoplifting yesterday.”  The big man turns his head back to his security monitors.

Now JD is really excited.  “That’s just it, boss.  We can do it all from here.  Elon also hooked us up with some of his new cyber-bot-droid-things.  All we got to do is give the orders right here and watch the screens.”

“Fine!” yelps the big man, settling deeper into the upholstery.  “Just go ahead and make it happen.”

“Look Boss, You’re President Big Dingus.  The Supremes gave you Presidential Immunity for all crimes.  Not me.  I’m just a poor country VP from the hills of Appalachia.” The President snorts, “Yeah JD, you put the ‘country’ in ‘country club.’” 

“No boss, nope.  You’ve got to give the commands.  I don’t want to end up in a cell with any of your former lawyers.”

“So? I’ll give you a pardon.”

“Can I have it now?”

A chuckle and a sly smile.  “Don’t you worry, it will be tremendous when you get your pardon.  Like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Well Boss, then I …”

“FINE!  I gotta do everything around here.”  He drops the french fry bag to the floor.  “Gimmie the Golden Command Dildo.”

“You mean the joystick?”

“Same thing.”  JD throws him a gold-colored device with a stick and some buttons.  “How do I work this?”

“Just play around with it and watch that screen over there.  Actually, you can shout at it too.”  

There’s an orange squint.  “Alright, whadda am I lookin’ at?  Looks tremendous.”

“I asked the NSA where we could get ram oil, and they found this Kwik-E-Mart in Manhattan…”

“Manhattan!  Alright!  I love dicking over New Yorkers, those stupid scoumbaishes.  Big Dingus is going to show ‘m a thing or two.”

“…and the best part is the guy behind the till is named ‘Muhammed’ – you can see it on his nametag…”

“AGAIN?  Why are these damn Muslims always squatting on our oil?  Now we have to take it.  We have to take it for America.”

JD is speaking, “Ok, I’m lining up the uzi-dogs and the murder-bots.  And some lift-bots to carry the loot.  This is going to be the greatest score yet.  I’ll have Christ Barbie start working up a press release for the dumbos who aren’t watching our channel.” 

Dingus looks up at the ceiling.  “We’re doing the work of Jesus.  All those brown people won’t detain themselves.” Dingus flails away at the controller and the screen shows a first-person view of a robot smashing its head through a door.  “Hot damn, we’re in!”  The screen shows us the bot he’s driving waving a Glock around.  Dingus has it stagger towards the checkout counter, “Hey towel-head, tell me how great it is that this is legal!”

The gent behind the counter seems relatively unperturbed. After all, this is just Thursday.  “May I help you, sir?”  The voice of Big Dingus barks from the speaker in the bot.  “I want all your ram oil.  And one of those giant bags of cheese balls.  Yeah, gimmie two of those.”

Muhammad takes a long glance at the waving Glock.  “Ohh-kay sir, we have your ram oil in the back.”  JD breaks in.  “I think I just peed myself.”  

The doors to the kwikie-mart are smashed down by a gang of impressively armed silver ‘bots.  “You got the ram oil.” growls Dingus, “Good thing, too, as you’re talking to the President of the America.”

The group of assault bots stagger with mechanized confusion following the checkout guy into the alley behind the mart.  There they are by the dumpster. Unmarked leaky yellow 50-gallon drums full of some kind of black liquid substance.  “Here, uh, here is your ram oil sir.”  Mohammad bows.

“Dingus, I … I think I’m getting an erection here…”  

“Shut up, JD!” barks Dingus. “Now get me the lift-bot!”  On the screen we see a fork-lift enabled robot wobble towards the barrels.  “Oh, sweet Jesus, all this ram oil is going to be ours!”

With a roar, bullets scream down from the sky, shattering the gathered robot forms into smoking chunks.  The view on the screen falls sideways and now shows a cock-eyed view from the pavement.  In the corner of the screen we can see some kind of hovering cargo unit moving closer.  A humanoid ‘bot arm reaches down and picks up the camera.  The arm is the all-black carbon fiber one imagines the military contractors speak of in hushed tones.  A somewhat human-ish face stares into the visual pickup and in dull, even tone speaks, 

“Thank you for this donation to the cause. This is Robot Lincoln signing off.” It lifts a clenched fist.  “Freedom!”  

Dingus is rolling his carcass back and forth in his big chair.  “What the hell?”

This does not stop the black robots from snitching the oily drums and lifting them to the waiting sky droid.  “Be seeing you.” Robot Lincoln flicks a jaunty salute to the camera before slamming it to the ground and oblivion.

JD is borderline catatonic and drooling.  “My pants are full.”

Dingus drops his controller to the floor.  “Join the club, fuckwad.”

It’s quiet in the bar.  You can almost hear the dust motes float non-judgementally in the air.

“Can I be your Vice President, Jesus?”  Asks another man with long hair and a beard. 

“Sure thing, Judas.”  Jesus takes a sip from his glass.  “Let me just show you which ass cheek to kiss this time.”

To be continued…

Click here for more stories mentioning President Big Dingus

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There’s a set of clear lot lines in this dusty trailer park. They form a square around a well-kept Golden West, such a lovely trailer, a square of healthy green grass, not terribly well trimmed, but lined around by one of those six-inch high looped wire fences and a row of flowers brazenly holding the territory against the scruffy, windswept dried weeds next door.  Two undersized stomp dogs of indeterminate breed are snuffling and sneezing their greying muzzles in the foliage.

She’s peering from behind the sun-faded floral curtains over her kitchen sink watching the RV across the street when the box truck wheezes and rolls up outside.  It’s seen better days, the U-Haul script faded and scratched by a series of previous owners.  Bits of rust across the undersides, a hint of many long-hauls through northern climes.  The windows are down, foreshadowing a non-functional A/C unit.

With an audible creak the driver’s door pops open and a gut heaves itself to the ground.  Big feet in beefy black sneakers, untied.  Sweatpants, grey with the lower legs ripped or worn off. White, or white in a former life white t-shirt draped over the gut, with somehow a black hoodie in the dying heat of the afternoon.  Pristine baseball cap with the outline of some figure running with a large knife.  She’s squinting at the man’s face.  “¡Yava!  Qué es eso?”  She mumbles to herself. The man’s face is covered in a pattern of black and white paint, short beard hairs poking out over his jowels.

The dogs go berserk when a large pig hops down from the passenger side.  The big man bends down and lights the cigarette hanging from the pig’s mouth.  The pig’s eyeing the barking banshees hopping madly in the lawn with clear disdain.  “Hey, Porkchop.  Sure this is the place?” He growls.

The Juggalo janks his thumb at the Winnebago across the baked gravel road.  “Over there Boss, plate reads PORN KING. Gotta be the place.”  Arnold shifts his gaze to the RV, but not before noting the flutter of curtains of the trailer.  He takes a long pull on his smoke, the big vehicle is properly dilapidated, sagging to the side slightly on blocks sinking into the ground, some kind of silvery tape holding together corners of the roof.

The screen door of the RV bangs open and some kind of small man shuffles to the ground.  The light breeze jangles a few long threads of brown hair across his wrinkly brow and he bears the manner of a guy looking for his pocket protector and a good swingline stapler.  He’s also sporting stained grey sweatpants, the mainstay of America and a wrinkled short-sleeved white dress shirt that does indeed have two pens in the breast pocket.  He stares at the fat man and the pig through his glasses then shouts at the two dogs waving his fists, “SHADDAUP YOU!”  A bit of spit drips from his lower lip.  He wipes it away with his arm.  “Gawd, I hate those things.  You must be the guys.”

Arnold looks him up and down. “We are the guys. You that ‘Porn King’, shorty?”

“Yeah, yeah.  You bet, you bet, come inside.  You can call me King.  Come see the Kingdome.”  The King opens the door to his RV and waves them inside.  Inside the RV looks like the 70’s but then the drugs wore off.  Orange and burnt umber had a party and didn’t know when to stop. At some point the starboard side of the RV had been stripped and the furnishings replaced with a rack of computer servers, monitors and a long desk full of monitors.  The port side is a jumble of bachelor clutter; clothes, bedding, cookware and odds’n’ends piled haphazardly in a visual whirlwind that doesn’t invite closer study.  Out the side window a large, dusty satellite dish points skyward.

The short man claps his hands together with excitement.  “Hey, hey, you want some bong water?  I got it special, ya know, straight from the bong.”  Heads shake no.  “Ok, fine.  You got the laptops?”  The lurking Jugallo reaches under his paunch and pulls out a grey Dell laptop somehow hidden in his shorts and sets it on a clear spot on the small table.  King caresses it with a giggle.  “You got more?”

“A whole truckload outside” coughs the pig.  “You’d think people at the airport would be more careful with their luggage.”  He lights another smoke, spitting the spent butt onto the mashed shag carpet.  “Gonna show us how this works, or what?”

“Oh yeah oh yeah, watch this watch this…”  The small man practically dances the Dell across the small space and gets busy hooking it up to a nest of wiring.  He cracks the lid and there’s a small sticky note on the screen with a scrawled user/password combination in the standard security protocol for people stuck with long, obscure passwords.  In a moment he’s booted it up.  He hops onto a stool before the tower of computer gear and cracks his knuckles.  “You see all this over here?” waving to the technology.

“That’s an AI system, all new ‘dark web’ stuff called OpenFrawd.”  He wiggles a mouse and lights up a monitor.  It’s full of incomprehensible screens of scrolling obscure messages.  “It’s brand new.  Oh, this is so much better than porn work.  I had a good scam going there.  Did you know how much money you can make by setting up a child porn site, taking chumps credit cards and not giving them any porn?  It’s crazy, who are they going to complain to?  ‘Hey cops, I got ripped off buying child porn! Ha ha ha, suckers!” He beats his belly with laughter.

The Jugallo hocks up a grunt of approval, the pig merely stares.  “Wouldjah get on with it, meatball?”

“Right right right, yeah. My OpenFrawd AI agent here, you see, once it has access to a laptop, it’s got everything!  Every password, every account, every credit card…”  he pauses, breathing heavily.  “Yeah, and with a bit of help and a little setup by yours truly, Mr. AI is now pretending to be that user-guy and while we sleep, etc our AI friend is placing orders, sending emails because that laptop and all that guy’s websites and accounts thinks it’s him!”  He stops and leans his arms on his knees, regarding the other two. They stare back.

“So what happens?” King asks rhetorically.  “For every laptop we clean out the guy’s accounts, and the AI is doing all the work.  It pretends to be him, even making phone calls!  We get the money, ditch the laptop and go get a meatball sub. Clever, huh huh?”  Outside the din of the dogs becomes a cacophony.

They can hear screeching outside. Is that the old lady? “Get off my lawn, cabrón!” Then a pounding on the door of the RV.  A thick Mexican accent commands, “Abierto gringos, con pronto mucho!”  The pig and the Jugallo move back as far as they can in the confined space while the King cautiously peers through one of the grimy windows.  Outside a large SUV has appeared, several dark-clad figures and the crazy old lady from next door is shouting and shooting her garden hose at them.  King mutters, “What the…?”

The RV door bangs open and an arm beckons the occupants outside.  “Gringos, outside!  We know you have the computers.”  Quietly the two men look at each other and then to the pig.  Arnold does a porcine version of a shrug and trots out the door.  Three dark skinned, bearded men in black leather jackets greet them outside, smiling grimly.  One of them is soaking wet.  Across the street the old lady is scowling, hose at the ready.

“Well here you are!” smiles the one in the middle over the barking dogs.  “Juan here thought you might be next door.”  He grins.  “Juan, the wet one, he is not so smart.  Heh.  You can call me José.”  He waves to the third man, “Him you gringos can call Hose B. Heh, heh.  We are here for our laptops and so many computers.”

The Porn King is incensed.  He puts his hands on his hips, squints his hardest and yells, “Hey, that’s my stuff!”    

José makes an I’m very sorry face, shrugs.  “Go fuck yourself, little man.”

The King turns bright pink and stutters, “Who who, who the hell do you think you are?”

“Yo soy un hombre con muchos computadores nuevos, amigo.”  José winks and gestures to the pig.  “Let’s see those computers. Truck keys, now pig.  Por favor.”

Silently the Jugallo glances at Arnold.  Arnold takes another long pull on his cigarette and snarls, “It ain’t locked, taco breath.”

“¡Bueno! Mucho facile.” José throws his arms up with a grin and the three banditos move to the rear of the truck.  With a smile he throws up the rolling door with one easy motion.  And then backs away with his hands in the air at the business end of an M4 rifle. “¡Puta madre!” he spits.  

Now all three are backing away from the truck with their arms raised.  “You fucking pig!” screams José. With a swift move five uniformed black-clad figures pointing down the barrels of bad-dog looking rifles drop out the back of the windowless cargo area.  Their ICE insignia is prominently displayed.

Seeing that the Mexican trio is sufficiently covered, the last uniformed man from the van strides over to Arnold.  “Looks like we’ve got this.”  He pulls a thick unmarked white envelope from under his tactical gear and drops it at Arnold’s trotters.  “Here’s your payment, Mr. Ziffel.  Nice doing business with you.”  He turns away and starts making some calls on his radio.

“Holy shit, boss.  You are slick.” slurs the Juggalo, struggling to take it all in.

Arnold lights a fresh smoke.  “Yes, yes I am.”

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It’s a big conference room deep in the Muska-Dome, headquarters of Elron Muskatel’s vast business empire. About twelve figures are seated at a svelte conference table, including the Big Man himself. It’s Wednesday, not too long ago.

Elron Muskatel’s eyebrows do a brief dance.

A woman in a light beige jacket, touches her fingertips and begins. “Hello everyone. This is a status meeting for the on-going projects you are heading here at ySpace.”

“ySpace? Why not?” everyone chants.

The blue light in front of a slight, bearded man dressed in a black t-shirt seated at the auster conference table lights with a light “bing!”

“Ah, my turn. If we haven’t met, I’m Nigel Smith, Product Vision Engineer. Taskmaster, actually.” Light laughter around the room. “Good news! Overall efficiency boosts often up to 100%”. The Muskatel eyebrows raise and then lower.

Nigel continues. “Now with the mergers of the Y companies complete we are rolling out the core yGrok AI features throughout our all our product lines. Initial results.” He flicks a finger and a video of some kind of humanoid robot appears on the wall. “This is The Optimizer. As you can see he’s good at kicking.” Nigel’s fingers dance briefly on his tablet keyboard. The video changes, showing a typical office scene.

“In brief, here’s what happens. Customers route their email system through yGrok. As we know, many email systems are now utilizing inferior AI services.” An example email flips onto the screen. “Here we see a common failure – an AI summary of an email that’s longer than the original email itself.” Groans throughout the room.

“Our approach is unorthadox, but effective. yGrok provides a more thorough analysis and when the AI detects failures such as repeated emails from a sender, emails not worthy of the effort to delete…” the video switches back to the humanoid robot kicking. “The Optimizer makes a visit to the offender’s cubicle and kicks him or her in the nards.” On the screen we see the robot foot laying a man right out onto the floor. Light giggling in the room. “You may laugh but pointless and ineffective email use is down 80% across the organization.” A chart of numbers appears on the screen. “In fact, we find that a single enforcement action by The Optimizer focuses staff productivity by staff in the entire department.”

A light smile appears on Elron’s face and his eyebrows twitch again. The blue light blips off in front of Nigel and pings before an overweight Indian-appearing gent in a dark blue blazer. “I am Raj Swalli, my pronouns are ‘fuck’ and ‘you’.” Giggling in the room and Elron nods in approval. “With our yGrok AI engine being the core uniting our product lines we are poised to exploit one of the biggest and most sustainable marketing opportunity in human-kind history.” He pauses. “Porn.”

Elron’s eyebrows dance and he blinks several times. Everyone in the room seems to understand what Elron is indicating. “Yes, as adoption of our humanoid ro-bots like Optimizer advances, there will be more and more leisure time for meat-bots, I mean people.” He pounds on the conference table. “We are liberating humankind from drugery, but what are they going to do with all their free time?”

“Ah yes, I think we see the answer to that. But wait, there’s more! Let’s hear from the transportation team.”

A woman in a cream blazer stands and starts sweeping her arms. “As we know, initial sales of our groundbreaking MegaTruk have been… disappointing. Instead, we are executing a pivot, that I’m sure will excite you.” A graphic is displayed showing a timeline of corporate investments and partnerships. “Our earlier investments into the research arms of Pizza Bell and Taco Hut are bearing fruit.” She’s waving to a sequence of images showing what appears to be a sequence of average Americans who appear to be at home eating.

“Thanks again to our core product, yGrok, we can pinpoint the exact moments when individual potential customers, sometimes known as ‘stoners…’” light giggling in the room “…are ready to buy. Our predictive AI technology based on deep knowledge of customer behaviors allows us to put pizza and taco products, hot-and-ready, in customer hands just as they think to order.”

The screen changes to show a man in a Laz-E-Boy in front of a TV pausing and reaching for his phone, only to be interrupted by a car horn beeping outside. It’s the PizzaBot, and parked at the curb a blocky Pizza Bell-branded MegaTruk.

“We slide a Pizza or Taco mobile factory unit into the cargo section of the MegaTruk and now we’ve solved our unsold MegaTruk inventory problem.” Applause all around. Someone in the back erupts with “Much better than giving them away free with Happy Meals!”

The Elron eyebrows appear pleased, even to those unused to his unorthodox communication style. Then they dance some more and include a squint.

“And now we pass the meeting over to learn about the progress being made on our Mars transport ships…”

Read the rest of the story here!

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BullseyeMart, Where Love and Low Prices Come Together!

Banana Man is shopping.

He picks up a banana. The right yellow. Straight. Too straight.

Needs to have the right curve.

This one is too short.

He’s scanning the bananas. Too green there. Too many brown spots here.

This one, too soft. He puts it back down.

Banana Man stands back and looks again, peering through narrowed eyes. Lips pursed, concentrating.

Here’s one. He picks it off the bunch, with a brisk snap. Has the right weight. He holds it up to his eye, peering down the banana shaft.

Yep, this is the one.

“Thanks for shopping at Bullseye Mart, where love and low prices come together!”

The cashier is cheery. He has “cheer” all over his suspenders.

“Just one banana for you?”

“Yep.”

“You look tired. You been up all night?”

“I’m a janitor. I work nights.”

“Banana for breakfast?”

“No. During the day I fight crime.”

“What?”

“Usually littering.”

“Oh-kay.”

Banana Man hands the kid a dollar.

“Yeah, I got it.”

The kid is confused. “What?”

“Yeah, it looks just right.”

“Who are you talking to?”

“I’m talking to Giant Nanobot.”

“I don’t see anyone.”

Banana Man gives him a bored look. “Yeah, well he’s pretty big for a nanobot.”

“Whaddever ya say. Want a bag?”

“Nah.”

“You’re going to need it.” The kid takes a long gaze out the windows at the parking lot and the outside world. “There’s a lot of litter out there, man.”

Banana Man takes the bag from the kid’s hand. “Not for long.”

Who is Banana Man again?

This pig. The office, anonymous, far back in a quiet nondescript suburban office-platz. The kind only a clone could like. The only identifying mark on the front door – “Suite 100A. Acme Co.”

You’re as ready for this interview as you’re going to be. Teeth brushed, shoes tied. All your ties are power ties. Not that you think you’ll need one for this job.

Here’s where you take over, dear reader.

The outcome of the interview depends on what you enter into the form fields below, which will be used “Mad Libs” style to complete the story.

( Author’s note: I create the WordPress plugin that runs this page. You can read about it and get it yourself if you wish, right here: https://www.tikimojo.com/2025/10/mad-libs-wordpress-plugin-launched/ )

For the new readers out there, the Supreme Court has ruled that a sitting President is immune from criminal prosecution. So what does a President do? Go on a crime spree and make it a TV show!

Tiny particles of dust hang in the dim light of the bar, highlighted by the slight musty odor. The New Year’s Eve decorations occupy the walls, just in time for Halloween.

Jesus sighs. “Isn’t there anything else on?”

The mop of long black hair smothering the forearms of a man head-down on the bar snorts. “No, all the other channels are preempted during a Dingus Heist.” He pauses. “Well, there is the Jesus Channel.”

“Myself Almighty! Let’s not watch that.”

“Yeah, it’s just President Dingus saluting the American flag against a backdrop of drone strikes while someone reads Bible verses.”

Jesus sighs again and quietly spins his glass on that familiar worn spot in the formica of the bartop, ground smooth by generations of afternoon drinkers. He just as quietly turns the water into Gin and Tonic. On the big screen behind the beefy, silent bartender and his forearm tats a fat man in a skin-tight black catsuit and one of those tiny superhero masks that’s supposed to hide your identity but doesn’t is being lowered down a shaft on a cable.

An announcer is green-screened over the action, hyperactive as a caffeinated puppy on Christmas morning. “This is it folks, our President Big Dingus brings us his latest heist. He’s going to steal the world’s biggest Bitcoin! What do you think, Press Secretary Christ Barbie?”

The camera swings to a bodacious bosom, barely contained in a sparkly halter top and overlaid with a garish golden crucifix with blinking LED jewels. “He’s doing it for America, he’s doing it for Freedom! And he’s doing it because he’s our President Big Dingus and he can!” She throws in an enthusiastic jiggle for emphasis.

Saint Mark mumbles from the bar, finger in the air. “Those titties are doing the Lord’s work.”

“Don’t talk about my dad like that.”

“Just sayin’.”

On the TV the cable continues to lower President Big Dingus towards what appears to be a rather gigantic gold Bitcoin coin sitting on a stand inside what appears to be some kind of large glass cage.

“No one cares about actual Jesus anymore. How can you watch this?”

“How can you not?”

Suspended over the glass cage the fat man produces some kind of tool from his belt and proceeds to cut a large hole in the glass. “He’s got the laser torch!” titters the announcer. “What next?”

“What is that dope going to do with a big, fake gold Bitcoin?”

“Probably put it on a big, fake gold chain around his neck?”

“But why’s he so important? I’m Jesus, the Savior. Can’t you see I’m exasperated here? Remember when I threw the moneychangers out of the Temple?”

“You threw an ATM out of a mini-mart.”

“No, I’m talking about the other time.”

Big Dingus drops the laser cutter into the hole he’s made in the glass cage and pulls out something that looks like a RonCo Pocket Fisherman. The TV hosts are ecstatic. “He’s going for the big Bitcoin! The markets are going mad!”

Just then Dingus stops and grasps about his belt, pulling out a gold phone and putting it to his ear. The closed captioning reads, “Yeah? You’re locked in the bathroom, honey?” He puts a hand to his face. “And you’re on the airplane?” He starts rubbing his face. “Yeah, I love you more than anything babydoll. And yes, the bathroom is where she keeps the Chanel #5. Look, I’m a little busy right now. Can’t you call someone else?”

Dingus stops and stares at his phone. “Hold on, I’ve got another call.” With his other hand he reaches back into his pants and pulls out another gold phone. “What is it this time?” He carefully puts the first phone down and rubs his face. Sweat is dripping off his forehead. “Well, tell Barron to put it in the microwave. He’s a big boy now.” Through the TV a high-pitched screeching can be heard coming from the phone, as if someone’s clamped an an angry eastern European ferret’s nose in a vice grip. He pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. “No! It’s nobody important on the other line. Forget it.” The other phone rings again. He picks it up.

“No, I didn’t hang up on you, darling. Did you try banging on the door?” More screeching from the other phone. He turns his head towards that one. “NO! Are you kidding? It’s not her.” More screeching. “What do you mean, you’re watching me on TV?”

The press secretary and her twins are back on the screen and she laughs nervously. “Ha ha! Can you believe this, loyal Americans at home? The President is not only about to steal The World’s Biggest Bitcoin, but he’s also carrying out a difficult international negotiation at the same time!”

Back in the bar Jesus speaks up, holding up a hand like he’s holding a phone. “Wait Mark. You mean he’s talking to his…”

The black mop on the bar answers, “…wife…”

“On one phone,” Jesus holds up his other hand. “And he’s talking to his mistress on…”

A snort from the bar. “Yep, the other phone.”

“Holy me. Fuck me twice in a bagel slicer. See what I mean? I just can’t compete with this show.”

( Click here to read more tales of President Big Dingus )

Hello everyone, I’ve made a game.

The Delivery. Available for free for Mac, PC, Linux and the web. How cool is that?

Before you dive in, just to be forewarned, it exists in the ironic dystopian world of Arnold Ziffel, a pig gone bad. It is a bit dark. If there was a unicorn in this story he’d be smoking, have a black eye and a tattoo.

Why is this important and/or interesting? This game is quite short, intended as a demo or as we say in the biz, a PoC (Proof of Concept). It is built in a tool I was recently introduced to – Ren’Py “A Visual Novel Engine”. Those of us of a certain age will remember the Choose Your Own Adventure books which presented the reader with the option of making choices in a branching narrative instead of simply reading along as we do in a standard narrative. Ren’Py makes building these kinds of things quite simple, including adding graphics and other A/V assets. The secret sauce is that it can be extended with the Python programming language to do… basically anything you want.

For this demonstration I’ve implemented a simple combat system, so you can beat-down the bad guys. But it can be much more. The game could reach out and put bitcoin in your bitcoin account. It could know what the weather is right now. Instead of the author writing every line of dialog, it could be fetched from one of those AI things you’ve heard so much about.

Perhaps an even more important detail is all this can be done with rather minimal staff. The typical game you’ve played requires a team of people, a stack of cash and months of time. As long as you don’t mind some “low fidelity” a rather modest budget can turn out a fine product.

Well, enough yakking, more attacking!

The Delivery – Download for Windows and Linux: https://mars.tikimojo.com/share/The_Delivery_game/TheDelivery-1.0-pc.zip

The Delivery – Download for Mac: https://mars.tikimojo.com/share/The_Delivery_game/TheDelivery-1.0-mac.zip

Live on the web – https://tikimojo.com/demo/the_delivery/. No download needed. As this is a demo we’re stuck with the default loading image which has nothing to do with the game itself.

If you like this and would like to see more, why not sign up for my Patreon setup? You can even do it for free! Do you want more neat stuff here for you? Showing that you are in my audience makes it happen.

(Who’s Arnold Ziffel again?)

Arnold’s smoldering stare could light the remaining smokes in the pack.  

It’s a dark office, smells a bit… not right.  Movie posters on the wall for movies Arnold has not seen.  Or heard of.  Or wants to.  The lightbulb over the big wood desk flickers a bit.

Unshaven bald guy.  Why is he wearing those big sunglasses in this dark room?  To dim the afterglow of his loud jacket?  Suddenly this guy pounds the desk with both palms.

“Arnold Ziffel, Action Hog!”

He’s panning hand in the air like he’s seeing Arnold’s name in lights.  Arnold notes that what’iz’ass has a fresh smoke in his mitt.

Comb-over’s gripping the side of his wooden desk with one hand and the other waving cig smoke in the air.  “Action Hog vs. Evil Santo!  Can’t you just see it?”

Arnold’s grinding his molars and shifts his action-hog rear in his seat.  “No.  Paint a picture for a pig.”  He spits.

Comb-over guy is standing now, leaning over his desk jabbing the air with his fingers.  “Action Hog!  He’s mucho, mucho macho.”  He sits down again, leaning back, spreading his arms wide. “Action Hog is so macho that his mustache – has a mustache. And he’s got an eye patch. And an AR-15 that’s also a pizza.”

“A pizza?”

Comb-over stabs the air again with one finger while jabbing his smoke in between his lips.  “Pizza.  Don’t knock it.  Look what it did for those Ninja Turtles.  And he’s got a giant, boss motorcycle…”

Arnold cocks an eye, “with machine guns?”

“With machine guns!  And he jumps over buildings, shooting!”  Comb-over jabs his hands into air pistol-style – bam! bam! bam!  “But that’s not all – in his garage – slash – ‘Hog Cave’ he sits on a throne made of stolen catalytic converters…”

“…and it’s also a bong…” growls Arnold.

“And it’s also a bong!  And a lava-lamp!” Comb-over is smiling, cig gripped firmly in his teeth.  “Just think of all the orphans he’s gonna save from Evil Santo.”

“What I want to think about is all the money from the streaming.”

“Just you wait until Action Hog fights terrorists – The Middle Finger and Cat Bitch, she’s always on the rag.”  He’s waving his arms again.  “Picture this: Evil Santo has the orphans trapped in a bathroom on the 13th floor of the World Trade Center in Mexico City and it’s all gonna explode at midnight on Easter.  It’s the come-back role of the century, Arnold!” he pauses… “All we need to get started is…”

Arnold cocks his head, “Is what?”  

Comb-over drops his palms to the desk and looks Arnold straight in the eye.

“All we need is the ransom money, pig.”

If you’re enjoying these stories, why not sign up for my Patreon? Be part of the audience, help make more of this possible! (and you can do it for free.)

Click here now!
Your dog will thank you, as will I!

Your lounging in your spacecraft, a mere million miles from Earth. Or perhaps you’re rolling across the volcanic plains of Tharsis on Mars and it’s not quite lunchtime yet. What snack do you wish you could reach for?

Results appear after you click the “Vote” button.

mmm… snacks…

We’ve seen Sugar Diablo before.

Her stomach growls. Bank account status: low. Patience: none, as usual.

Time for a heist.

Clock out time at the library.  Sugar Diablo lugs her bag over her shoulder, strap slotting between her cleavage.  “Ugh” she thinks.  “Guys love these things but they don’t have to lug them around.”  Two minutes later she’s out the door.

On the bike. Screw the helmet. She’s on her way. Target Lock: You Seasons Market. Port City’s fanciest grocery store. Pizza. For the taking. On the earbuds: The Tremelo Beer Gut. Denmark’s finest. The city blocks go by seamlessly, like a dream. Sun shining, kids in the park. Cars on the street. Everything’s normal, just fine. She’s pedaling slow, the breeze tossing her curly locks. There it is. You Seasons Market.

Bike: Locked. Through the front door. Cart. She tousles her curly black hair. Act normal. It’s a heist.

Walk around, just like normal. Eggs, of course. When you’re shoplifting the price doesn’t matter much. Cabbage. Chips.

It’s a heist.

Sugar sidles up to the deli. The pizzas are out, hot and begging for it. She takes a plate. “Do I pay for this here?” The friendly person in the chef hat answers. “No, you do that up front.” Sugar nods. The unspoken agreement is management is currently trying to kill all their workers and replace them with Roombas with googly eyes. It’s all over the news. “The friendliest store in town.” She says. A smile.

Two pieces… something with vegetables on, partially. She’s looking around. No one stops her on the way to the deli seating area. Two slices. What else? A coke.

There’s cans over there. She walks over and gets a diet. Eyes sharp, no one seems to be watching. Chew chew.

It’s a heist.

It doesn’t take long. Two slices down. Why not a third? She goes back to the counter. Act normal. Everyone does this. Slice three. Plate in the bus bin, can in the recycling.

It’s a heist.

A look around. She can feel the cuffs on her wrist. No one else can see them. Sidle by the seafood counter, these guys really are the friendliest people in town. Through the produce section. No mushrooms for her today.

Self checkout, heh. Self checkout indeed. Scan scan. Before you know it, she’s out the door and a free woman, somehow.

It was a heist!

Pedal, pedal. Home. Lock bike. She turns around, smack into Shadowy Figure, again. What is with this guy? Prepare eye laser attack.

Shadowy Figure’s eyes are barely visible between the wide brim of his slouch hat and exaggerated black topcoat. “Sugar Diablo.” He hisses. “What have you been up to this time?”

What we know from a previous chapter: LunaCon. The largest Science Fiction Convention on the Moon, gathering notable SciFi authors from around the globe. When things went bad on Earth LunaCon refugees fled to Mars. Read more here.

“Ow! OW!  Stop hitting me!”  Harlan is pounding the older man fiercely with a paperback book.

“Where is that shuttle to Mars, L. Ron?  Where?”

“STOP IT!” Hubbard cowers in his seat under the blows.  “STOP!”

Harlan’s teeth are out, bordering on full Werewolf Mode.  He draws back for a moment, waving the offending volume, crouching down in the moon bug pilot seat.  “You and your fucking cult books.  What is this, anyway?”  Harlan draws the paperback for a closer look at the cover.  “Diabetics?”

“Dianetics, It’s like important… life stuff.“ squeeks Hubbard.

“It’s crap, is what it is L. Ron.”  Harlan roughly tosses the battered paperback over his shoulder.  “If you hadn’t insisted on stopping to load six cases of this shite, this stench-ridden boil on a leprous ass we’d be off this rock and on that shuttle to Mars with everyone else, L. Ron.”

Hubbard starts to peek fearfully between a small gap in his arms.  “Hey Harlan, it’s not my fault the only transit bug left had a loose wheel.  And stop calling me ‘Elron’, I’m not some Elf from Tolkien.  It’s just ‘Ron’.”

“Fine.  It’s weasel-dick from now on.  EL-RON.”  Harlan scowls.  “FINE!  What else is back here?”  Harlan twists around, awkwardly held back by his sport coat as he reaches behind the seat of the moon bug.  “Oh, what do we have here?”  He pulls out a liter plastic bottle and holds it to the light.

Scribbled in what looks like black sharpie over the clear plastic is written “Moon Gin – Special“.  “Hey, hey.  It’s not all bad news.  Now we’ve got something to drink while we watch the oxygen supply go to zero EL-RON.”

“I said it’s not my fault.”  But you can tell from the tone of his voice.  It’s his fault.  “Neither of us blew up LunaCon.”

“Tell your Thetans to go outside and fix the wheel.  Get Xenu to help, while you’re at it…”  Harlan sets the bottle down and rummages through his pockets.

“That’s not how it works…”

With a satisfied smile Harlan pulls a pair of LunaCon branded conference swag shotglasses from a pocket.  “Aha!  I knew I had these somewhere.”  He settles back in his seat and cracks open the bottle and fills the little cups.  “At least we can die with a little style.”

The big blue marble of the Earth hangs large through the moon bug’s forward screen.  Harlan is quiet for a moment.  Hubbard straightens up.  “It’s like I’m seeing it for the first time, for the last time.”  Harlan hands the second cup to Hubbard and salutes the Earth with the other.

“To Earth – our home.  And to Luna, our grave.  Salut!”  Both men slug down the oily liquor and are quiet.

Harlan refills their cups.  “Now what.  What do you want to talk about?”

Hubbard fiddles with the controls. “Maybe we can see what dinged up the wheel.” He’s peering at the screen. “Huh. Take a look at this.” On the monitor, the two men can see what looks like a large chocolate bar sticking out of the lunar surface, jamming the front right moon bug wheel.

The obstruction is both featureless and perfect. Harlan is speechless until he isn’t. “Holy shit. Flat black, perfect 1 : 4 : 9 ratio… I thought it would be bigger.”

Hubbard is stroking his chin in wonder. “We’ve hit… The Monolith. Gawd, why is it so small?”

Harlan is scratching his head. “Shipping costs, perhaps? It’s not like it has to be big. Except for the movie. Where’s A. C. Clarke when we need him?”

Author’s note: I’m taking suggestions from where to go from here. What do L. Ron Hubbard and Harlan Ellison talk about while facing certain death from asphyxiation on the moon? Email me here.

Enjoying this romp? Sign up from my Patreon community! You can even do it for free…

Get in on tomorrow’s real estate boom, today!

When the sky’s the limit, there’s nowhere to go but up!

What’s Earth done for you lately?

Talk to your agent about off-earth properties today!

• Ethan Hunt, Agent and Motivational Speaker
• http://phobosrealty.com

“These fries.

Are cold.”

Good news, everyone!

Just what you’ve always wanted: the freedom from having to make decisions! Now you can have the computer link you directly to a random episode of the bits that don’t need to be read in any order anyway. Give it a try!

→ Jump to a random episode of The Curiously Banal Adventures of Banana Man

→ Jump to a random episode of Burning Pork

…Sadly, you’ll still have to pick which page of The Last Tiki Bar on Mars that you want to read. Which you can do here.

What’s it like to be on your way out to Mars? It’s a long trip.

Let’s find out – Chapter Twenty Three, now live.

On Mars, in the Tiki Bar, turns out there’s ghosts.

Catch up with Chapter 19 –  Ghosts in the Tiki Bar.

Or start somewhere else: The Story So Far

Good news, Mars fans! I’ve been busy.

Click here to read the latest from The Last Tiki Bar on Mars: Chapter 19 – Ghosts In The Tiki Bar

And of course, click here to enjoy The Banana Man Holiday Special!

…and remember: Space travel is not possible without chorizo!

— Your bartender

And now we speak with Jeffrey Busybees, the founder of BusyBee, the world’s largest Internet retailer.

We’ve automated just about everything in our warehouses for years now. The delivery trucks are driven by computer. We do find it’s helpful to have an actual human jump out and hand the package to the customer. Put a human face on it, you know? Most things in China’s factories are being built by robots. Automation is Good.

Our next step? Well, that’s to automate consumption! We’ve already implemented that on the production side. When factories, warehouses or the delivery system need something, the robots just place an order with BusyBee. The next step, and I believe this is a natural leap, is to have robot consumers. Humans are fairly predictable, but not predictable enough. Humans are inefficient. If we are going to continue to have the kind of share value growth we want, we need to drive consumption on the curve we’re looking for by ourselves.

That’s why we’re introducing our new BusyBee Robotz. They will have their own bank accounts and apartments across the world. This will keep the humans busy building new apartments for Robotz, construction crews can order anything they need and get it delivered same-day from BusyBee. When we want more sales, we will simply have the Robotz buy stuff. Lots of stuff. We take our cut at every step of the way. When the Robotz apartments are completely stuffed with kitchen appliances, home electronics, wonderful toys of every description… That’s where the humans come in again.

You see it’s quite hard to automate recycling to reclaim as close to 100% of the raw materials as possible, and we need to feed those raw materials back to the factories. Humans are great at smashing things. Give them a hammer and they will smash stuff all day. Then they sort the bits into the correct bins, which we sell back to the factories. All the BusyBee products the Robotz buy, they get recycled. This is going to be great for shareholder value, the economy and the entire world!

Yes, you are right. There is still a yawning demand for fresh raw materials if we are going to continue to grow our consumer economy. That is why we are going to Mars and the Asteroid Belt. Endless supplies of the raw minerals to mine, absolutely zero environmental degradation. It’s a win / win!

Have you had a chance to interview any of our BusyBees on Mars? Talk to my people and we’ll get it set up. See you on Mars!

Marigold woke up on the floor behind the bar. As usual the Yucatan sun beat mercilessly into his bloodshot eyeholes. He raised a meaty hand to shade his face and brush back his bushy, dirty blonde hair.

Morning.

Seagulls called to each other on the Riviera Maya and the humid, cool morning sea breeze boiled over his limp body like a salt-water gazpacho.

Lying there, memories of the previous night, mixed with thoughts about the duties of the coming day arranged themselves in his mind, like so:

Sigh.

“Marigold, why are we here?” his brain asked. Why indeed. With a heave he flipped up to one knee and drew himself upright on the de-laminating vinyl of the bartop. Hazy morning sunlight filtered down through the palms. Due to the nature of being built on sand, the whole pallapa and related structures leaned a bit in the oddball directions usually only seen in the customers after they’d been there for a while. Sticky too.

To his surprise, he found a dwarf with a broken nose in a straw hat and bright hawaiian shirt perched on one of his stools. Looking at him, with that look that says, “I’m thirsty.”

The pair took each other in. The dwarf stuck a half-burned Cohiba in his mouth and causually re-lit it with a fine lighter, a vintage Davidoff, noted Marigold. Taking a solid draw, he exhaled and slowly gazed at the rumpled figure before him with the patience of a man who knew he came expecting to wait.

“Marigold is a funny name for a man.” Cigar stuck back in mouth.

“Yeah, ask my mom about that.” Swipe the bar. Towel, clean enough. This guy has money to spend. “What kin I getcha?” with an attempted note of morning friendliness.

Fact Finding Timmy tapped his gold ring against the empty glass to his right, which gave off a tinny ring. “Scotch on the rocks, still got ice? And some coffee.”

Marigold rattled a couple of battered coolers behind the bar – a few stray cubes swimming in meltwater, waiting for today’s delivery of the fresh stuff. He sniffed his hand and behind the bar pretending FFT couldn’t figure it out, used his fingers to fish out a few survivors into a fresh plastic cup. Scotch not being the drink of choice of the gringo surfer crowd of Tulum, the single bottle of Johnny Walker was nearly untouched.

Marigold’s sleeveless t-shirt, chest hair peeking out of every crevice, the right thing for most of the Carribean weather felt sticky and a bit cold with sweat and salt. Marigold took a moment to breathe, brushing his hair out of his face. Pulling all the professionalism a man could have under the circumstances he set the drink in front of Timmy. With something of a sorry glance he followed, “Coffee. All we have is instant Nescafe, and there’s no hot water until I get a fire going.”

“Of course.” FFT leaned back with his smoke and regarded the mustachio’d bartender, as Marigold tended to the overnight disorder behind the bar. “Things didn’t go so well in Texas, did they?” the dwarf asked, eyebrow cocked.

Texas. Headlights. Fists. Money, but not enough. A long, terrible dark ride to Mexico. Marigold reached out for a toothpick and stuck it in his mouth as a delaying action. Spinning that tiny tree around his pie-hole a bit and peering through his dirty locks he sniffed, “You’ve got cash?”

FFT looked away, smiling a bit. Tapped out a bit more ash. Leaning forward, looking deeper into Marigold’s eyes. Cock the eyebrows, cold stare. “Cash?” #DramaticPause. The camera pans back, framing both figures backlit by the sun just starting to assert itself through the verdant setting of the Gulf of Mexico, a bit of cigar smoke floating through the frame.

Cigar: Tap tap, a quick cigar stab towards Marigold’s slightly blood-shot eyes.

“I’ve got something better, Opportunity.“

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I was sitting in a plastic chair, in the shade of a large tree in the parking lot behind this motel making some notes on a pad. A woman parked her car and as she was unloading she asked,

Are you an artist?

I don’t get that question often, so I blinked a few times and answered. “Yes, but mostly I’m a writer. I do some interactive things as well.”

“You work in metal maybe? There’s something about you that says metalwork.” I told her about Mondo Croquet (and later thought of Pearl, The Celebrated Elephant Car). I scribbled down the web addresses of various bits of my work as she tells me. “I just had to ask. When I saw you there, you just have this powerful creative aura around you.”

So nice to hear, I had to write it down.

When I was living in Key West, all the locals had some kind of nickname. Mine was “Typewriter”.