Yer a good lad, Atticus, mowin’ me lawn and killin’ what Brits come around.

That's right, there's free beer in Irish paradise. Everyone's jealous.

Thank you, Morrigan. This is very helpful," I said, already feeling myself warming up. "And delivered to me entirely without pain." The Morrigan sucker-punched me hard in the face, sending me sprawling in the snow and breaking my nose. "You spoke too soon and with entirely too much sarcasm," she said. "We could have parted with a kiss. Remember that.

He will spit you and roast you with rosemary, and we will all sample your flesh tonight. Tomorrow you will be shat out into the snow. Your diplomacy is bold and edgy, sir.

As any war veteran will tell you, there is a vast difference between preparing for battle and actually facing battle for the first time. You can be told that reading Victor Hugo will sap your will to live, but you can't understand what it means until you've read a few chapters and your eyes are glazed over and someone has to revive you with a defibrillator.

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.

If I waved that in front of a museum curator, he'd promptly lose control of his salivary glands.