Pretend you have a bundle of sticks, and you're standing on the banks of the Rhine. Chittering arbuncles are swarming about the ditch to your left, and approaching at great speed. You run, but the chittering gets louder and schlenckier. Your companions, remnants of a Roman legion that once held sway over this area, have shat themselves to a man.
Thousands of years ago, before dawn of man as we knew him... OK, this time without plagiarism... one once wondered when one weighed winsomely the weight of one so wounded. Subsequently, bats go off in their own direction, as you run and run and huff and puff. Remember when you had to polish the anchor all by yourself?
Polyglottinous mercenaries have been assembled for your convenience, here in the Plus-Sstiller amplifier. Orbiting beer flanges will return to your upright position relative to galactic axis. Hyena milk is available to those who would actually run down a lactating hyena.
Not responsible for meteorite showers, echidna damage, artificial turf, melancholia, or gravy viscosity. Otherwise, have a great time on your way to the tundra.