Granuaile looked terminally depressed when she emerged from the bathroom with raven hair and, as a result rather Goth by accident. She didn't want to get her picture taken. "Aughh!" she said miserably, looking in the vanity mirror in the truck of the cab and fingering a wavy curl near her temple. "This sucks more than anything has ever sucked before. You know what we look like? A couple of emo douche bags." "Well, look at the bright side, Granuaile. Emo Douche Bags would be a great band name." [That's brilliant! It's already the unofficial name of more bands than I can count.]

Anyone who's ever tried to tangle with a teddy bear cholla knows there's a whole lot more bear than teddy to it.

Awesome! I'd just bullied Jesus into doing a shot with me. Nobody would ever believe it, but I didn't care. We ordered the insanely expensive stuff, seventy-five dollars for a 1.75-ounce pour of premium Irish whiskey, because if you're doing a shot with Jesus, you don't buy him scotch.

You will respect my authori-tah!' Oberon said, in a passable imitation of Eric Cartman. I reminded him that I needed to concentrate. Sometimes dogs forget; they just get too excited.

The tendency of modern American women to exclaim 'Hiiiiiiiiiiii!' in soprano octaves and hug each other upon sight can be disconcerting to those unfamiliar with it.

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.

Well o' course she's feelin' dandy! She's the mother o' God for the love o' Pete!