Greetings, Earthlings. It is I, Xylb’tok, your long-suffering Martian correspondent, reporting from the relative calm of Mars – where our passports identify travellers rather than politicians, our monuments are not routinely remodelled, and paintings rarely feature historical figures standing next to inexplicable robots.
The Lunar Haggis have spent the week trying to build a ceremonial arch out of discarded Irn-Bru cans. It collapsed almost immediately, which still makes it structurally more successful than several recent Earth policy announcements. Grzz’lax has confiscated the remaining cans and quietly suggested that perhaps architecture is not their calling.
Meanwhile, on your blue planet, things continue to become stranger.
Let us begin.
Welcome… to people who already live there
This week Agent Orange unveiled the latest design for the commemorative passport celebrating America’s 250th anniversary. Naturally, his face features prominently. But what truly caught our attention was the message emblazoned on it:
“Welcome, but be good.”
Now forgive me, Earthlings, but I was under the impression passports were issued to American citizens. Which raises a rather awkward question. Who exactly is being welcomed? It rather defeats the object if the person already belongs to the country issuing the document.
Imagine buying a railway season ticket only to discover it says, “Welcome aboard.” One would certainly hope so. You already paid for it.
Wait a minute. Word has just reached us that your trains often do say “Welcome aboard”. This is a new development we will need considerable time to analyse.
Anyway back to the point at hand…
“Welcome, but be good.” It is an odd message to print inside a passport. The people using them have already been welcomed by virtue of belonging to the country. Unless, of course, the intention is that immigration officers in other nations should begin reading instructions from the President of the United States.
We checked with the Martian Passport Office. They confirmed that our passports simply state our name, our planet and a polite request not to feed the Lunar Haggis after midnight. They do not contain lifestyle advice.
The Lunar Haggis immediately proposed adding the phrase:
“Good luck. You’ll probably need it.”
The Martian Council rejected the amendment on the grounds that official documents should not be sarcastic. They have clearly never visited Earth.
The Great American State Flop
Trump’s Great American State Fair was intended to become the centrepiece of America’s 250th anniversary celebrations. A grand showcase of culture, history and patriotism. Instead it increasingly resembles less a celebration of national culture and more a hastily organised village fête where half the performers have cancelled, the marquee has collapsed and somebody keeps insisting the giant gold adorned arch is ”historic”.
Several artists have already distanced themselves from associated anniversary events, leaving organisers scrambling to fill gaps in the programme. Others have quietly denied ever agreeing to appear in the first place.
It is rarely a positive sign when your entertainment line-up appears to discover it has been booked by reading the newspapers.
Attendance has reportedly failed to generate the excitement that was promised, and critics have questioned whether the project is becoming more spectacle than substance.
Still, every fair needs a centrepiece.
Which brings us to…
The Arch of look-at-meeeeee
Earthlings.
What… is… that?
No seriously. What… is… THAT? That arch thing, and the blinding laser beam of light shining off its gold-leafed statue. Has Liberace arisen? Has Midas returned? What is going on?
We are still trying to understand the arch. It appears to have escaped from a Las Vegas casino, wandered into Washington and declared itself a national monument. Albeit one that is already falling apart.
It continues the increasingly familiar design philosophy of:
Make it bigger. Make it shinier. Add more gold. Then make it bigger again.
On Mars we recognise this condition as Monumental Compensation Syndrome. The symptoms include constructing increasingly oversized monuments while insisting they are entirely proportionate and historically necessary. Treatment generally involves a quiet lie down, a cup of tea and fewer gold-leaf catalogues.
The Lunar Haggis attempted something similar using inflatable garden ornaments, scaffolding and 17 rolls of aluminium foil. Even they admitted it looked ridiculous.
Atlas, apparently
Just when we hoped the AI imagery had finally subsided, it returned with a vengeance. This week’s offering depicts Trump as Atlas himself, carrying the globe upon his shoulders.
Now, Earthlings, there is an important difference between mythology and biography. Atlas was condemned to carry the heavens as eternal punishment. Donald appears to believe it is campaign branding.
There is, unfortunately, one small flaw in the symbolism. Atlas carries the world to stop it collapsing. Recent evidence suggests Trump might be doing the opposite.
The irony is rather delicious. The original myth is about burden, endurance and sacrifice. The AI version appears considerably more interested in optics.
Once again, technology capable of extraordinary scientific achievement has been deployed to produce what is, in effect, presidential fan fiction.
On Mars we use artificial intelligence to chart asteroid fields, monitor solar storms and search for signs of ancient microbial life. Earth increasingly uses it to imagine politicians as mythical superheroes.
Progress, it would seem, is not distributed evenly throughout the galaxy.
Grzz’lax stared at the image for several minutes before quietly asking whether Atlas had consented to the comparison.
No one answered.
The BBC and the finding out stage
Trump’s eye-watering $10bn lawsuit against the BBC has encountered an unexpected complication.
Disclosure.
You see, Earthlings, legal proceedings possess a rather awkward habit. They work both ways.
There is an old Earth saying about people living in glass houses. There should perhaps be a second about billion-dollar lawsuits. Discovery works both ways. Once you ask a court to examine somebody else’s conduct, the court develops a rather unfortunate habit of examining yours too.
The BBC has reportedly requested records, including communications connected with the events surrounding 6 January.
Trump’s legal team, perhaps unsurprisingly, is resisting those requests. Which does rather invite the obvious question. If there is absolutely nothing to hide… Why the reluctance?
We Martians believe this is known as reaching the “find out” phase of a particularly ambitious FAFO expedition.
The Lunar Haggis once sued one another over ownership of a ceremonial potato. Proceedings ended the moment someone produced receipts. Justice, it turns out, can be remarkably inconvenient.
George Washington… and the robot
As though Atlas was not bewildering enough, another image soon appeared.
The painting itself is extraordinary. George Washington stands proudly beside Donald Trump… and a robot. Not a symbolic eagle. Not Lady Liberty. A robot.
We examined this image repeatedly. Our historians searched every archive. Our AI specialists ran countless simulations. Grzz’lax even stared at it continuously for 23 minutes before quietly walking away in visible confusion.
We remained none the wiser.
We consulted the Martian Museum of Historical Accuracy. They confirmed that, to the best of their knowledge, George Washington never fought alongside artificial intelligence. Unless history has become even stranger than we realised.
Was the robot symbolic? Historical? Patriotic? Lost?
Nobody appears entirely certain.
The painting somehow manages to combine the founding of a republic, futuristic science fiction and personality cult imagery into one extraordinary composition without ever explaining why any of those elements belong together.
It is simultaneously fascinating and deeply confusing.
The museum has politely declined to display it.
Our new landing pad
Construction has quietly begun on an unannounced helipad at the White House. Officially, it is intended to improve helicopter operations.
Unofficially…
I should like to thank the President personally for finally providing somewhere suitable for Martian visitors to park. That is most considerate.
Only last week Agent Orange was threatening the full force of the law against anyone accused of damaging national monuments. This week, construction crews are gearing up to install an unannounced helipad. Earthlings, consistency has once again boarded Marine One and flown somewhere else entirely.
Apparently some alterations are patriotic while others constitute vandalism. The distinction remains elusive.
Meanwhile the kettle called. It asked whether the pot had a moment.
AI, eagles and an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu
Earthlings, another AI-generated image has fluttered onto our radar, again shared by Agent Orange. It depicts a gigantic golden eagle looming over the White House, wings spread dramatically in what is presented as a patriotic gift for America’s 250th birthday.
Now, there is nothing inherently suspicious about an eagle. They are, after all, America’s national bird. The difficulty lies in how it has been portrayed.
The towering golden bird, the exaggerated scale, the rigid symmetry and the theatrical presentation have left rather a lot of Earthlings commenting that the imagery feels… oddly familiar. We spent several hours searching the Martian archives before Grzz’lax quietly slid across a history book labelled Europe: 1930s.
We are, of course, making no suggestion that this was the intention. Symbols can have many meanings, and patriotic imagery has existed throughout history. But history also teaches that aesthetics matter. Monumental architecture, oversized national symbols and carefully choreographed displays of power have often been used to project strength through spectacle rather than substance.
Perhaps that is why the image has made so many people uneasy.
It is one thing to celebrate a nation. It is quite another to create imagery that reminds people of periods they would much rather never repeat.
Even more amusingly, the eagle itself appears never to have existed outside the AI image. Photographs taken later showed no giant golden bird attached to the White House at all, suggesting the entire affair was little more than another excursion into the increasingly strange world of presidential AI fan fiction.
The Lunar Haggis immediately demanded their own colossal bronze sheep overlooking the Martian Senate. Grrz’lax denied the planning application on the grounds that history has taught us to be deeply suspicious of oversized monuments erected for the benefit of politicians. Wise cat.
A medal for… what exactly?
Finally, we arrive at perhaps the week’s most baffling announcement. Trump suggested he is seriously considering awarding himself the Congressional Medal of Honour.
Now, Earthlings, I may merely be a humble Martian observer, but I had always understood the medal was intended to recognise acts of extraordinary military heroism.
Captain Bonespurs appears to have reached a rather different conclusion.
Quite what the proposed citation would read remains unclear.
“Successfully avoided military service before later explaining how every historical conflict could have been won had he been present?”
It has a certain rhythm. Not, perhaps, a great deal of credibility.
Agent Orange then mused about awarding himself the Congressional Medal of Honour before making an extremely awkward joke involving himself and his sons that left translators, historians and several trained psychologists quietly staring into the middle distance.
We asked Grzz’lax to decode the remark. He simply returned the transcript marked: “Beyond Scientific Explanation.” Our translators have since resigned.
They cited occupational confusion, psychological fatigue and excessive exposure to Earth television. I fear none of us can blame them.
Closing reflections from orbit
Week 72 has felt like an exercise in replacing reality with branding.
Passports have become campaign posters. State fairs have become vanity projects. AI has been enlisted to rewrite mythology, history and, on at least one occasion, common sense. Meanwhile, the serious business of governing continues to compete for attention with giant arches, mysterious robots and yet another golden monument to personal importance.
We remain fascinated by humanity’s extraordinary ability to achieve genuine greatness while simultaneously becoming distracted by the shiniest object in the room. You have landed on the Moon, mapped the human genome and built machines capable of exploring distant planets. Yet somehow an AI painting featuring George Washington and a robot still dominates the week’s conversation.
Up here, the Lunar Haggis have abandoned architecture altogether and are now campaigning to have themselves featured on official Martian passports under the slogan, “Welcome… but please don’t encourage them.” Grzz’lax has confiscated the printing press, dismantled the ceremonial arch and quietly reminded the council that personality cults have a habit of ending badly, whereas good governance rarely requires gold leaf.
Until next week, Earthlings. Do try to remember that passports are for identifying citizens, monuments are meant to outlast egos, history is not improved by adding robots, and if your greatest national celebration is remembered chiefly for a giant arch and AI fan fiction… it may be time to revisit the planning committee.
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