Dear Abby, I know the grass isn't always

Dear Abby, I know the grass isn't always greener on the other side, especially on Mars, but some of my Martian friends tell me they are born with a full cosmoconception and a path

ological happiness making paradise seem redundant.The problem is they flaunt it while I toil grimly on my parched plot in Ares Vallis.How can live with the injustice? -BLUE ON MARS

BARS! That disgusting candy. So unjust. Not like a Mr. Goodbar, who modestly shows his peanuts. The Mars Bar should be incarcerated. Forced to do hard time. No Sir! No freedom

like melted chocolate & caramel, which is what they are; let's face it. They coulda been something. Something sweet and savory. Now they're only fried and crusty burnt-out shells.

Like myself. Like my pathetic, worthless, loveless self. Who can eat this sweet candy? It reminds me of what I lost and never deserved. I am a filthy, sub-human monster, and sweets

are my idol. I guzzle them week after week, and I get really sugar high and end up staring at my bedroom wall for days on end. But then, I stopped eating for a while because

I forgot how to make a sandwich. The doctor looked at me over her half moon glasses. "You need a therapeutic break in a spa in the Bavarian mountains. Only intensive massage of

mayonnaise in the lumbar region, a daily scalp mustard plaster and wearing a piece of sliced ham under a Bavarian lederhosen or dirndl will bring back your sandwich making skills

to rival those of that famous German gasthaus sandwich chain, "Unterführung." Best not to ask for bratwurst in your lederhosen, though. Some people would just not understand.