Palestinians on Mars

A Space Opera

Be sure to read this one after Just get rid of the Palestinians

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The ochre sands of Mars yielded beneath our landing struts with the reluctance of a working class single mother who has yet to internalize the reality of her position.

In silence I watched the rugged crimson landscape slowly engulf our viewport, the planet’s truncated horizon suggesting a world left somewhat unfinished—or perhaps just awaiting completion by abler hands.

Rebecca's reflection appeared beside mine in the reinforced glass, her chestnut waves framing features drenched in that peculiar Ashkenazi beauty that reads as either ethereal or vaguely predatory depending on the lighting. Those enormous dark eyes—always analyzing, assessing—reflected the glow of her terminal like polished obsidian.

“Atmospheric readings from the main settlement actually exceed your projections…” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the data scrolling across the terminal.

“Of course they do,” I replied, not bothering to actually review the data. I’d learned in my consulting days that metrics and projections serve only as intellectual scaffolding: utterly indispensable during construction, but basically irrelevant to the final edifice. “The Palestinians have always demonstrated a certain ingenuity when properly motivated. So let’s pack up and see what your fellow Semites have accomplished.”

The women in my coterie scuttled around the cabin with dainty Hebraic efficiency, gathering instruments and securing equipment with a choreographed ease that spoke to their deep and practiced intimacy. Leah, the outfit’s sole Israeli, cast a sidelong glance my way laden with neurosis and not a little skepticism. Hers was a classic beauty befitting the court of Solomon himself, and that had made me a bit too indulgent of her occasional insubordination. But unlike her diasporic counterparts, Leah's distrust was also rooted in something far deeper than simple political disagreement—she understood the nature of my gambit in ways they never could. Securing her loyalty going forward would be nothing short of essential.

“Look alive, Goy!” Miriam called out as she activated the craft’s external cameras. “Seems the Pallies sent a welcoming committee…”

The monitor revealed six figures approaching our craft from across the russet plain, their environmental suits adorned with keffiyeh patterns that lent them a curiously ceremonial appearance—like high priests of some archaic civilization performing rites of hospitality on foreign ground.

I adjusted the collar of my environmental suit—custom tailored to emphasize the shoulders and suggest a certain athleticism most find it difficult to maintain alongside a life of the mind. The subtle Bismarck family insignia embroidered near the collar wouldn't be visible to the Palestinians, but its presence served as a private reminder of lineage and legacy, fabricated though mine might be. History, after all, is written by those who understand how to position themselves within its narrative flow, and I've always excelled at reinventing backstories—particularly my own.

“Seal your helmets, girls!” I instructed merrily while lifting mine own into position. “It’s time to break bread with humanity's first extraterrestrial delegation.”

“Oy gevalt, daddy…” Rachel sighed, the Brooklyn in her voice thickening with irony as she secured her helmet. “Try not to recolonize them before dinner.”

The airlock cycled with a hiss of equalizing pressure as my Jewesses and I emerged onto the dusty surface of that most biblically red of planets—now playing host to a diplomatic masterstroke centuries in the making.

The Palestinian delegation approached us with the careful movements of those only recently adapted to reduced gravity. Like middle schoolers at their first formal, the sheikhs seemed painfully aware that their every step was being judged.

As they should be.

The Palestinian leader, Mahmoud Al-Marikh, had been selected primarily for bureaucratic competence as opposed to revolutionary fervor. I’d rather stridently insisted on that point during the venture’s conception, as my past experience with various failed political movements had taught me that ideologues make rather poor administrators—particularly when their ideology was forged in the crucible of perpetual victimhood and fueled by the deceptive comfort of historic grievance.

“Mr. Bismarck!” Al-Marikh's voice came through the comm system with arresting clarity. “Your vessel was tracked entering our airspace… It behooves me to observe, noble friend, that a more direct approach would have been customary!”

I smiled back flatly at the Moor—the implied criticism had revealed far more than he’d intended. Even in the infancy of their settlement, territorial thinking had taken root and the Palestinians had already begun to think of Martian airspace as theirs—precisely as I'd anticipated. The human impulse toward ownership manifests with remarkable consistency across cultures, but always most strongly in those historically deprived of it. It’s hardly surprising the Pallies feel a need to overcompensate.

“One should never approach new territory without first taking its measure,” I replied wryly, extending my hand in greeting. “The scenic route offered strategic advantages.”

Mahmoud’s hesitation before accepting the handshake was barely perceptible—a momentary calculation of dignity versus necessity that's characterized Palestinian diplomacy for generations. In a former life I'd witnessed similar calculations in numerous contexts, from high stakes negotiations with corporate fatcats to more intimate transactions with especially self-possessed sugar babies.

“The settlement awaits your inspection,” he said, gesturing toward the edifice that dominated the near horizon. “We've made... adaptations to the original designs.”

“Adaptations…” I echoed, allowing a hint of roguish amusement to color the word. “How very on-brand! I look forward to seeing your innovations, Mahmoud.”

As we crossed the dusty plain, I activated my private channel to Miriam. “Assessment?”

“Their suits incorporate Chinese defensive systems…” she replied with that particular detachment common in women scoring low in trait neuroticism and high in trait conscientiousness. “Nothing we haven't accounted for.”

“Noted,” I murmured back absentmindedly as I began to scrutinize the habitat we were approaching in painstaking detail.

The dome rose from the Martian surface with an elegant audacity—far larger than anything specified in my designs, and adorned with geometric patterns that appeared to serve both structural and aesthetic functions. Even from a distance, it was evident that the construction incorporated elements sourced beyond the officially sanctioned technology package. The Palestinians had found patrons willing to circumvent the Treaty of Armstrong—exactly as the eighth paragraph of appendix C in my proposal had predicted they would. The consistency with which human behavior conforms to well-designed models can be existentially devastating at times.

But as we entered the complex through yet another airlock the tableau that unfolded before us momentarily disrupted even my carefully composed expectations.

The central atrium soared upward at least forty meters, crowned by a transparent ceiling that filtered the harsh Martian sunlight into something almost Californian in character. Atmospheric processors hummed with quiet efficiency, while vegetation scaled the wall in a display of bioengineering that clearly exceeded the extant public capacity of anywhere on Earth. Meanwhile hundreds of settlers moved between clearly defined sectors with the focused and agentic verve of a people building something real —a far cry from the aimless shuffle of refugees I'd expected!

“You've been busy,” I acknowledged, removing my helmet when readings confirmed breathability. Immediately my nostrils buzzed and it dawned on me this oxygen mix was suspiciously rich—a subtle flex of technological prowess I couldn't help but admire, even as it also struck me as a rather transparent attempt to assert dominance.

“Necessity,” Al-Marikh replied simply, removing his own helmet to reveal features weathered by more than mere Martian radiation. “When return is impossible, adaptation becomes imperative.”

“Indeed,” I conceded wryly while surveying the impressive space. “Though I notice certain… technological signatures that weren't originally included in our agreement. Those Chinese atmospheric systems… These Iranian genetic modifications… Curious additions to find so far from Earth's regulatory oversight, don’t you think?”

A slight tightening around Al-Marikh's eyes confirmed what I already knew.

Behind him, Dr. Layla Abdel-Rahman—their chief terraforming scientist whose Stanford credentials had always struck me as rather incongruous with her family connection to three separate Hamas commanders—shifted her weight almost imperceptibly. Such micro-expressions of discomfort are always pleasing to observe, like watching an adversary in chess gradually realize checkmate is inevitable.

“We've made use of available resources,” Al-Marikh replied, his tone carefully neutral.

“Available resources,” I repeated, allowing the phrase to hang momentarily in the artificially generated atmosphere. “How fortuitous that such resources became… available precisely when needed! One might almost suspect... coordination?”

The pockmarked security chief—Khatib, if memory served—positioned himself slightly closer to Al-Marikh and slowly began to drift his fat brown hand toward what was very obviously a concealed weapon. Naturally this movement had all the subtlety of a toddler attempting to steal cookies while maintaining eye contact with his mother, and my darling Leah had a bead on him in seconds.

“Perhaps,” I suggested in the dulcet tones of a special education teacher, “we might discuss your impressive achievements somewhere more comfortable? I'm particularly interested in hearing about your operations at Hellas Planitia, Acidalia Planitia, and near the northern polar cap.”

The sudden stillness that descended over the Palestinian leadership carried more weight than any verbal acknowledgment. Still Al-Marikh recovered admirably, his expression a masterclass in diplomatic neutrality—the sort of mask I myself had perfected during those years of corporate negotiations where the stakes were considerably higher than most participants realized.

“I'm not certain what you're referring to, Mr. Bismarck...”

Instead of responding directly—a tedious approach favored by those lacking strategic patience and a sophisticated understanding of social subtext—I produced a small device from my pocket and placed it on a nearby table. Then with a gesture that straddled the line between theatrical and pragmatic (a balance I've perfected through many years of presentations to easily impressed corporate executives), I activated its projection function, revealing a detailed topographical map of Mars with four distinct settlement locations clearly marked.

“Your primary settlement, as agreed upon,” I indicated, before pointing to three additional markers. “And these rather impressive unauthorized outposts. The Chinese-supplied facility at Hellas Planitia. The Russian modules near the polar cap. And the Iranian biotechnology compound at Acidalia Planitia. Each operating with technologies explicitly prohibited under the Treaty of Armstrong—a document you lot clearly respect about as much as your prophet respected Aisha’s innocence.”

I smiled at my joke as sweet understanding began to illuminate their dusky complexions. Then I continued: “What's most interesting is that each outpost has developed specialized capabilities that in isolation represent merely impressive technological advances. But if correctly synthesized...” I let the implication hang in the synthetic atmosphere, savoring the moment as one might a White Monster.

“You knew…” Dr. Abdel-Rahman stated flatly, her detachment fading rapidly.

“Of course I knew. Because I arranged it!” I cut her a wolfish grin.

“Impossible,” Al-Marikh responded, though his tone lacked conviction. “The Chinese would never—”

“The Chinese would and did,” I interrupted gently. “As did the Russians. And the Iranians. Each pursuing their own objectives through carefully constructed blinds, each believing they were oh-so-cleverly circumventing American hegemony.”

I gestured expansively at the settlement around us. “Consider the obstacles to rapid Martian development. The Treaty of Armstrong prohibits national claims and restricts technological deployment to ‘sustainable civilian applications’—a term deliberately left vague enough to be essentially meaningless. Corporate interests are constrained by shareholder demands for Earth-focused returns. Religious objections to terraforming persist among certain influential factions who apparently believe God would be displeased by humanity expanding beyond the one planet He explicitly mentioned. Bureaucratic oversight ensures progress at a geological pace—approximately one committee meeting per millennium, with fifteen forms required to document each breath taken.”

I pointed to the holographic markers. “Yet here we stand, amid technological implementation decades ahead of official schedules. How? Through the elegant predictability of human behavior: through the Palestinian desire for autonomy, as reliable as their loyalty to absentee kleptocrats; through Chinese hunger for extraterrestrial resources, as voracious as their appetite for bootleg Louis Vuitton; through Russian opposition to American geopolitical dominance, as consistent as their fondness for socially engineering the DR; and Iranian determination to project its influence outward, as persistent as the nation’s nuclear ambitions.”

Rebecca was watching me now, her expression suggesting she might be reassessing a few of those late-night brainstorming sessions where I'd appeared more erratic than the situation warranted. My other companions displayed varying levels of surprise, with the sole exception of Miriam, whose superb investigative faculties had already pieced together portions of my grand design. Women of her caliber are distressingly rare, their pattern recognition abilities typically hampered by emotional considerations—almost like a calculator that refuses to perform certain functions because the numbers might feel uncomfortable with the result.

“You used us,” Al-Marikh said quietly, his voice reflecting neither anger nor surprise, so much as resigned recognition.

“Used you?” I echoed, the question genuine despite its rhetorical framing. “My dear Mahmoud, I elevated you! The Palestinian people spent generations as pawns in a geopolitical game they never truly controlled. I merely repositioned you as actual players, with a genuine sense of agency over your own civilizational outcomes!”

I gestured around at the settlement. “Consider what you've accomplished, Mahmoud: a functioning society, technological innovation, orderly self-governance—all things impossible in that fetid strip on the Mediterranean where your kind spent generations perfecting the art of victimhood. And why is this? It’s because here your natural capacities aren't constrained by geographic limitations or historic grievances, much like how a cat released into the wild suddenly remembers it's actually a predator.”

The pockmarked security chief spoke for the first time, his voice carrying the constipated tension of someone accustomed to violence as a primary negotiating tool. “And what do you gain from this arrangement, Mr. Bismarck?”

“Something far more valuable than technological advancement,” I replied. “Let me ask you a question: have you noticed the absence of something in your settlement?”

Al-Marikh frowned slightly. “I'm not certain what you mean.”

I gestured toward the children playing in a nearby educational area. They seemed engaged in what appeared to be a difficult construction project requiring ample physical coordination and complex social interaction.

“Look at them. What are they NOT doing?”

Dr. Abdel-Rahman followed my gaze, her expression shifting from confusion to sudden comprehension like she just realized she left her curling iron plugged in. “They're not... staring at screens.”

“Precisely! No dopamine delivery devices. No attention fragmentation technologies. No immersive virtual environments designed to hijack the reward circuitry of developing brains.”

I activated a second projection showing a series of brain scans.

“Earth is losing a war few even recognize is being waged: the systematic dissolution of human executive function through increasingly sophisticated Dopamine Traps. The average terrestrial adolescent now has an attention span of approximately eight seconds—less than that of a goldfish, and rapidly approaching the cognitive sustain of a particularly distractible housefly.”

Al-Marikh studied the projection with growing interest. “And this concerns you why, exactly? You don't strike me as the humanitarian type, Mr. Bismarck.”

“I'm a pragmatist,” I corrected. “And the pragmatic reality is that Earth's current trajectory leads directly to voluntary human extinction. The metaverse platforms currently in development are designed very explicitly to create preference cascades away from reality itself, including basic biological imperatives like reproduction. Why struggle through the messy complexities of courtship when one could instead have a perfectly optimized virtual partner—one programmed to never exhibit a disgust response to his fragile and contemptible and disgusting interiority?”

I switched the projection to show population decline graphs. “We're already seeing this effect begin in developed nations. Birth rates plummeting—not due to economic factors as commonly believed, but rather due to the systematic rewiring of reward pathways. Why endure the messy, painful reality of human connection when a perfectly calibrated dopamine drip awaits in your VR pod? Why raise children when you can instead raise virtual pets that never need food or college tuition or therapy? The human species is voluntarily walking into extinction.”

“So you've created an isolated, controlled environment free from these technologies,” Dr. Abdel-Rahman observed, her womanly curiosity visibly overriding her prior wariness. “A human population developing without digital dependency...”

“More than that,” I replied, warming somewhat to my interlocutor as I observed she sort of looks like

Bimbo Ubermensch

. “Your Iranian colleagues at Acidalia Planitia have been developing neurochemical stabilizers that significantly reduce susceptibility to dopamine exploitation—essentially brain armor against algorithmic manipulation. Meanwhile the Russian water reclamation systems include trace elements that strengthen prefrontal cortex function, while the Chinese atmospheric processors filter out microplastics and endocrine disruptors that have been degrading terrestrial cognition for generations.”

I watched their expressions carefully. “Separately, these are interesting scientific advances. Together… they represent humanity's first viable defense against what will otherwise be an extinction-level event within three generations. It's like vaccinating a population against a disease the rest of humanity doesn't even recognize as such.”

The Arabs exchanged glances, a new understanding silently passing between them. “You relocated us not merely to solve a geopolitical inconvenience, but to create...”

“The first human population with a fighting chance against technological oblivion,” I completed for him. “Palestinians were the perfect candidates—a people with strong cultural identity, experience operating under resource constraints, and most importantly, minimal exposure to the most advanced behavioral modification technologies currently deployed in Western and East Asian markets.”

I gestured to the children again, appreciating quite hypocritically how they engaged in actual physical play instead of the sedentary glazed-eye torpor that characterizes most Earth children. “Your next generation will develop neural architectures fundamentally different from their Earth counterparts—capable of sustained attention, delayed gratification, and resistance to algorithmic manipulation. In short, they'll remain human in the classical sense, while Earth's population increasingly transitions to a post-human, pre-extinction state of managed dependence, like battery hens content with their cages so long as the feed keeps coming.”

The security chief's fat hand had completely abandoned its hover near his weapon, his innate suspicion apparently overwhelmed by the sheer scope of what I was describing. “So Earth's authorities permitted this experiment?” he asked, with the bewilderment of someone who still believes in the fundamental benevolence of power structures.

I laughed warmly. “The same authorities who receive billions annually from the very corporations developing these technologies? The same authorities whose power now depends entirely on populations too cognitively compromised to sustain meaningful rebellion? The political class whose primary skill is maintaining the illusion of opposition while ensuring nothing fundamentally changes? Of course not. They're as addicted to the dopamine economy as the populations they manage—possibly more so, given their median age and corresponding vulnerability to cognitive exploitation.”

I deactivated the projection with a casual gesture that had required approximately twelve practice sessions to perfect. “This is why the secrecy, the misdirection, the carefully compartmentalized knowledge. Earth's power structures have a vested interest in managing human decline through technological pacification. A population with restored cognitive capacity and neurochemical independence represents an existential threat to their control systems—like introducing sober people to a party full of drunks who've convinced themselves alcohol is a food group.”

Al-Marikh studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, to my mild surprise, he laughed—a short, genuine sound that contained equal parts resignation and admiration. “So we're not merely a solution to the Palestinian question…” he said slowly. “We're your ark.”

“An apt biblical reference!” I acknowledged. “Though in this case, the flood is dopaminergic rather than aquatic.”

Dr. Abdel-Rahman was now examining her tablet with renewed interest, her fingers moving across the screen with the fervor of someone discovering hidden messages in a text they'd previously dismissed. “These neurochemical profiles... we’d attributed the cognitive differences in our children to reduced stress and improved nutrition…”

“Those factors certainly help,” I agreed. “But the primary driver is the systematic removal of attention-shredding technologies combined with the neurochemical interventions I've arranged. Your children are developing brains optimized for reality rather than virtual stimulation—a rarity on Earth already, and soon to be entirely extinct without intervention.”

I watched as Al-Marikh's expression shifted through a series of micro-adjustments, the initial shock of revelation giving way to calculation… and then to a reluctant appreciation. He'd correctly intuited that I was telling him the truth, or at least a version of it sufficiently proximate to be functionally identical. The human capacity to detect sincerity, while easily overwhelmed by confirmation bias and motivated reasoning, still functions reasonably well in direct interpersonal interactions—one of many capacities being systematically atrophied by digital mediation.

“And when these children grow up?” he asked finally. “What then?”

“Then humanity has its backup system,” I replied simply. “While Earth's population retreats into VR pods, chemical sedation, and algorithmically managed decline, Mars develops a civilization immune to the cognitive pathogens that have rendered terrestrial humans functionally obsolete. You become not merely the first Martians, but potentially the last fully human society—the guardians of capabilities the rest of our species is eagerly discarding in exchange for more efficient dopamine delivery.”

The security chief frowned. “This is rather... convenient for you, Mr. Bismarck. You solve your Palestinian problem while positioning yourself as humanity's savior.”

“I'm solving two problems simultaneously,” I corrected with a charming grin. “That's not convenience—it's efficiency! The Palestinians get self-determination. Humanity gets an insurance policy against extinction. I get the satisfaction of outmaneuvering the technological oligarchs who believe they've already won the final war for human consciousness. Everyone benefits except those who profit from humanity's cognitive decline—a set of interests I've never found particularly compelling, despite their very generous consulting fees.”

Al-Marikh's expression had grown thoughtful, suggesting the sort of sensitive and nuanced calculation I'd selected him for in the first place. “And the other settlements? Do they understand their role in this... experiment?”

“Each participant knows precisely what they need to,” I replied. “The Chinese believe they're establishing territorial primacy for eventual resource extraction. The Russians believe they're counterbalancing American space hegemony. The Iranians believe they're developing bioweapons to eventually deploy against their enemies. None of them understand the synthesis effect—or its true purpose. Like the proverbial blind men describing an elephant, each grasps only the part they're touching.”

I watched as full understanding dawned fully in Al-Marikh's eyes. “And now you need us to coordinate these disparate elements.”

“Precisely,” I confirmed. “Your people are uniquely positioned to integrate these technologies without alerting the various sponsors to the larger design. You've spent many generations navigating between competing imperial powers—it's practically your evolutionary niche! Palestinians may be the world's foremost experts in managing contradictory demands from multiple patrons while maintaining your own agenda beneath the surface. A skill set finally being applied to something more productive than maintaining the status quo of perpetual conflict.”

The security chief exchanged glances with Dr. Abdel-Rahman, some unspoken brown people communication passing between them. After a moment, he turned back to me with an expression I hadn't anticipated—amusement.

“You know, Mr. Bismarck…” he said slowly, with the careful measure of a man selecting precisely which cards to reveal, “when we discovered the Russian outpost three months ago, we began to suspect something like this might be happening. And we've already established communication protocols with their research team.”

I kept my expression carefully neutral, though I felt a flicker of genuine surprise—something rare for a man accustomed to always being several steps ahead of everyone in the room. “You've begun the integration already,” I stated rather than asked.

“We're Palestinians,” Dr. Abdel-Rahman said, with unmistakable pride. “We've spent generations navigating between competing imperial powers. Did you really think we wouldn't recognize familiar patterns and adapt accordingly? It's what we do.”

“Well played,” I acknowledged with genuine respect. “You're proving my point about restored cognitive capacity rather elegantly.”

“Not entirely through our own merit,” Al-Marikh replied, with a shrewd look that suggested he understood more than he was saying. “The neurochemical interventions you mentioned—we had detected anomalous compounds in our water and air supply months ago. Our scientists identified them as cognitive enhancers, though we hadn't traced their origin. I assume we have you to thank for that as well?”

“A necessary foundation,” I admitted. “Earth's population has been subjected to decades of attention fragmentation. Your people needed a clean neurochemical slate to fully realize their potential. Consider it… cognitive decolonization: removing the invisible shackles most people don't even recognize they're wearing.”

Al-Marikh studied me for a long moment, his expression unreadable even to my well-practiced eye. Then he glanced at his colleagues before turning back to me with the measured consideration of a man deciding whether to accept a deal from someone he clearly sees as a professional con artist.

“So,” he said, “what happens now?”

“Now we formalize our partnership!” I replied. “You continue integrating the technologies from the auxiliary settlements. I provide the Earth-side cover and additional resources you'll need. Together, we create a human society capable of resisting the technological extinction event already underway on Earth.”

“Equal partners?” Al-Marikh asked, one eyebrow raised skeptically.

“Separate, but equal,” I confirmed, extending my hand once again. “With distinct but complementary roles. You handle the on-ground implementation; I manage the interplanetary politics. Division of labor according to comparative advantage—a basic economic principle even Marx and Friedman could agree on.”

He accepted the handshake without hesitation this time, his grip firm and decisive. “We have much to discuss, then.”

As we moved toward what appeared to be a conference area, Rebecca fell into step beside me, her voice pitched for my ears alone. “You're looking rather pleased for someone whose manipulation has just been exposed...”

“Ah, but exposure was inevitable, my little belle juive…” I murmured back to her with the serene confidence of a man whose contingency plans have contingency plans. “What matters is that they've already begun acting precisely as I hoped they would. The fact that they believe they've cleverly discovered my scheme ahead of schedule only accelerates their commitment to it. Nothing motivates a man quite like the belief that he’s seized agency from a manipulator.”

Her lips curved back in that devious Semitic smile and I could see the wheels turning in her head. “So even their discovery of your manipulation was part of your design?”

“The best traps are those the quarry believes they've cleverly avoided,” I replied, watching Al-Marikh confer with his team ahead of us. “By ‘exposing’ my scheme, they feel empowered rather than exploited—which makes them far more effective partners than mere pawns ever could be. It's like letting a child believe they've successfully negotiated for dessert after dinner, when dessert was always part of the menu.”

Rebecca's expression shifted to one of genuine curiosity. “And the neurochemical interventions? Are they real?”

“Quite real,” I confirmed quietly. “Though their function is somewhat more complex than I explained to our Palestinian friends.”

“Complex in what way?”

I smiled faintly. “That's a conversation for another day.”

As we took our seats at the conference table, I surveyed the Palestinian leadership with genuine respect. They’d performed admirably within the parameters I'd established, exceeding expectations in several key areas. Their rapid adaptation to the circumstances—including their early discovery of certain elements of my design—only confirmed the fundamental soundness of my approach.

The future stretched out before us like the rusty Martian horizon—closer than Earth's, yet somehow more expansive in its possibilities. A new chapter in human development, written not through the algorithm-mediated decline that awaited Earth's populations, but through the restoration of human cognitive sovereignty.

A masterpiece of civilizational resurrection, if I do say so myself—and I frequently do, often to the severe discomfort of everyone in earshot.