The only other scenario that could explain everything, up to and including your own bizarre apperance, is a convoluted conspiracy theory involving the Russian Mafia and a crack team of plastic surgeons.

Don’t feel bad; I regularly reduce people to unintelligible stammers.

Stay back, human. You don't know what you're dealing with.

We're being lead by an idiot with a crayon.

'Insanity... I like it."

Artemis: I am not buoyed by that. Foaly: You are not supposed to be buoyed by that. You are supposed to be equalized. Mulch: I'm pretty sure that both of you just made really horrible jokes. But I'm not sure because I think you broke my funny bone.

Ah, my princess. Noble steed. How does the morning find you both?