"I haven't been eating lately," the triceratops replied. "Literally everyone I ever knew and loved is dead. Drowned in tar-pits, their bodies exhumed as a spectacle for your young. Two million years of life crushed into the oil you burn and shoved into cartoons your children cackle over. Even I am dead, a haunted corpse stumbling across the land we once ruled, seeing the ghosts of my friends adorn lunch-boxes and furry slippers. A multi-million dollar grave-robbing industry run by the miserable ungrateful former rodents who inherited the pristine world we left them."
Hearing this, the barman is shamed, and weeps slow, warm tears.
"I miss the old days too," he admits. "Back then I could mock any Irishman who dared to come in here. Political Correctness has wiped out comedy like a meteorite."
"I'm sure that must be very hard for you", the triceratops says, shaking its heavy head in resignation. "Now, I'd like forty-three bowls of salad, please. And might I borrow a digestive system?"
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