Bullshit, as you Americans say. He's Irish. The Irish say bullshit too.

Oh noes, kitteh haz major angriez!” I said. I turned around to share a laugh with my companions and found them glaring at me. “What?” I asked. Leif shook a finger and said in a low, menacing tone, “If you tell me I have to talk like an illiterate halfwit to fit into this society, I will punch you.” “And I’ll pull out your goatee,” Gunnar added. “Lolcat iz new happeh wai 2 talk,” I explained to them. “U doan haz 2 be kitteh 2 speek it.

That is a noble idea, though I think it far to generous," Jupiter said. "Once a decade should be sufficient." "I would rather be too generous than not in such cases." "As you wish." [One day, Atticus was amazed to discover that when Jupiter said, "As you wish," what he really meant was "I love you."]

Oh. Oberon looked at me. I know that has to make you sad. But call to me instead, Atticus. I'll always answer. Your fly has been open all this time, by the way, and Granuaile hasn't said a thing. Thanks, buddy, I said silently as I tried to surreptitiously zip up my jeans. See? I got your back AND your front. I deserve a treat.

She didn't go all fangirl on anyone, but I suspect that's only because none of them bore the slightest resemblance to Nathan Fillion.

There are many perks to living for twenty-one centuries, and foremost among them is bearing witness to the rare birth of genius. It invariably goes like this: Someone shrugs off the weight of his cultural traditions, ignores the baleful stares of authority, and does something his countrymen think to be completely batshit insane. Of those, Galileo was my personal favorite. Van Gogh comes in second, but he really was batshit insane.

They never predict anything fun," Granuaile answered. "Just once I'd like to hear a prophet tell someone, 'Thou shalt win a bitchin' Camaro on a game show.