And before the South Hemisphere door shuts completely, a tiny termite scoots in. It makes the trek across to the bar and climbs behind the brass rail, up the face and around onto the top.

Summoning all his miniscule breath, he squeaks out at the top of his little lungs:

"Excuse me, is the bar tender here?"

"Balls!" growls the barkeep. "Not another bloody one."

*SWAT!*

*smear*