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Lock your doors. Pack up your doonas. Hide your Crumpler Bag (Ooo. Too late.) And
whatever you do, DON'T look him in the eye. . .
The nastiest, meanest, low-downest, lily-livered piddler in the West has just entered the flat.
Big. Bad. Kitty Witty. Rarr.

"I rather think that a more rigorous assault might be the unwelcome occupation of this Red Hatted Warble-Throated Booby, just when Mother Earth was enjoying a quiet nap."

"The most frivolous sound known to Nature must surely be the human echo."
I suppose the ideal pet would be an Ego. Called Bob. If you could feed him once a day (or three small feeds on a PMT day), life would be altogether more pleasant. Like most perfect pets, Bob would probably crave exercise most when you're tired (of being spiritually sound). He's easily entertained (by moments of self-delusion, ambition and wayward pride) and only gets cranky when provoked (by People Not Like You). And while he might serve a purpose to get things done (kill rats, gobble blow flies, wee on unwanted suitors) it would be so nice to just be able to say "Back in your box Bob" without hurting anyone's feelings (least of all yours).
Speaking of organs, what if Earth is just the Liver of something much larger? If my cells think
I'm God . . .
Thought of the week: courtesy of Quantum Physics 101,
The University of Light
On rare moments during meditation, I wander the empty corridors of my mind. But more often, I wonder who cancelled the cleaners.