Trip the switch, quick it's getting away, trip the fucker, he's running away with your bag, quick, it's a switch, just a simple binary switch, on, off, zero, two, you can trip it, stick out your leg, trip. It. Trip the fucking switch. Nooooooo, not that one, the other one. Boy, you've really done it now. Do you know what you've done? Do you? Do you? Do you know what you've done? You've tripped the wrong switch. You've let an innocent switch get away with your bag and you've tripped the guilty - the wrong - switch. You'll never get your bag back now, and why? Cos you were wrong, and you tripped the wrong switch. It's not a matter of right and wrong, but you were wrong and tripped the wrong switch and now you've got to live with yourself, you've got to go back home with your tail between your legs and an empty space on your back where the bag once was. What you gonna put there now? A monkey? Yuh, as if. You wouldn't know a monkey if it came up and tattooed a banana on your arse. They say the monkeys are the reason we have such beautiful sunsets: they fly too close to the sun and bleed all over it; chicks dig red. They also say the gravediggers are the reason we have such beautiful sunsets, but I don't buy it for a minute: what's a gravedigger got to do with a sunset? Not a damn thing, that's for damn sure, apart from the thing with the thing where they affect the sunset, but that's far more negative than positive, and only occurs in the south-western quadrisphere, which sure as shit is shit ain't here, and even if it was here, wouldn't be here because we're evolving at nine hundred miles a second, so it's reckoned by those nice Monty Python boys, and that girl with the breasts. As breasts go hers were very 70s, not like the nice 90s ones I grew up on, or the futuristic 21st century ones we have now that we have jetpacks and live on the moon. I guess standards were lower back then, both in what you had and what you got, depending on which bit of the fence you straddled and bucked. I wonder if life really will be like that in the 25th century; it'd be kinda cool if it was. I won't be around to see it, naturellement, but my children to whom I've passed the secret of eternal life that I'm too uninterested to try out will be, and they'll see if life really is like they said it would be. It'd be kinda cool if it was. Even if it's not like they said it would be, it'll still be interesting to see what life's like in the 25th century on a purely platonic level, perhaps even sociological if we haven't all disappeared into warm little pits we've (they've, cos I'll be long dead and rotting, dug up and archaeologised) dug for ourselves, with our popcorn, our corkscrews, our romantic smelling candles and the warm duvet we soaked in vodka, frozen and smashed over our head to make comforting vodka ice cubes that only a true believer would dare taste. More than once. More than once I've been told, I've been told, told I've been that more than once that I have once been more than once, but I don't think I could do it again, even if I wanted to, and I most certainly don't, so I won't, and I don't appreciate your line of questioning when you're fully aware I have no intention of answering this same question that you've put to me more than once, but less than twice. Work that one out, fractious bitch. Is it warm in here? It sure feels warm in here to me. Is the heating on? What's burning? Can you smell something burning? Or is it just wood roasting? I like my wood well done; if wood's worth doing it's worth doing well, and not all raw and bloody when you bite into it. I bit into some wood once and it was all bloody in my mouth, and that just put me right off eating wood for years and years, but I tried it again a few months back, cooking it myself this time, really roasting it some good, and although some spiteful individuals might see fit to call it charcoal, it didn't bleed in my mouth, so I'm willing to call it non-bleed wood, in fact I'd even go so far as to capitalise on it: Non-Bleed Wood. There, you weren't expecting that now where you now, eh? What's it all aboot, eh? I'd say it's all about using as many people as you can for whatever you want to use them for for as long as for you can get away with it, then crying and when they feel bad that you feel bad, use them some more. You won't get anywhere in this world unless you shamelessly use people, not caring for a second what they think, and capitalising on the weaknesses of the human condition that you've successfully eradicated from your good self, your better half, your best man, more or less it's the lesser of two evils, your least infection. They say the yeast infections are why we have such beautiful sunsets, something to do with the bread rising in the east and seeing a Dr. West. I once knew a Dr. West, but he wasn't a real doctor, he just called himself doctor so people would go to him with their medical problems and he could pretend to help them, whilst really just giving them a supportive ear and suggesting gargling with a soluble aspirin; oh, fret not little one, he was perfectly capable of recognising the serious problems, and he was more than capable of dealing with them, or referring them to the person with the knife, fork or really strong medicine that they keep in the really high mirrored cabinet. He was cheap too, cos here in good ol' Blighty we have the National Health Service, hereafter referred to as the NHS, to use the acronym culled from the words National, Service and Health, not necessarily in that order. I really like the NHS, in its ideological incarnation, cos it means poor people don't die, and that's like nice or something. More people to use, y'see? I like the sound.