Life Under the Martians

I am once again inspired in my own direction by the… seasonal?… decor of the White House. This year’s is a little closer to conventionally festive than last year’s, but it’s still a little odd. If it weren’t, it wouldn’t be something I’d feel the need to handle.

Above a small image of the White House Xmas decor, I write "In the wake of the War Machines, there came the Red Weed, growing riotously to smother all the terrestrial vegetation it encountered. To we few survivors, huddling in the shattered remains of the dead city, this hideous new life was a final terror."

The White House image, larger-- a hallway flanked by cones of scarlet fur, somewhat reminiscent of the texture of pine trees. At the distant end of the hall, a tree with so many lights on it one cannot tell if it is another of the Muppet-skinned oddities or an actual tree.

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Fountain pen fancier and repairer, intermittent intellectual, underfunded anarcho-dandyist, and self-admitted writer of fiction, who's given to frequently wishing everything he wrote of a nonfictional sort was being read aloud by Stephen Fry, and everything else by either Vincent Price or Christopher Lee.

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