Dickie continued drinking. Pterodactyls disappeared behind clouds. Small furry creatures emerged from nearby ferns.
“Bleedin’ Nora, what?”
“Look at the sky. There’s another sun.”
“Bert, you tart, that’s not another sun. That’s an asteroid.”
“You can get cream for that, y’know, Dickie.”
“For asteroids. Cream. You spread it on your bum and it makes them disappear. I read it on the internet.”
“That’s haemorrhoids, you tart! That up there’s an asteroid. We’re in for a cold spell I reckon.”
Bert hated cold. And spelling. It was his worst subject.
Thereby proving conclusively the sighiness of Brontosauruses.