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And in Scotland, a dog is often called a dug. Regardless of how it’s spelled, they are all good dugs.
Gordie, who was supposed to be my lucky number seven, choked to death on a scone this morning. It had raisins in it, so that was bloody daft, as raisins are ill-omened abominations and he should have known better.
[My weird shite keeps people worrying about economics and politics instead of the possibility that trolls might steal their children for breakfast, so I think we should accord it a smidgen of gravitas.]
I often took the extra hundred steps or so required to gaze upon this gentle giant and be conscious of my purpose: to love and cherish and protect the beings of this plane, and to be kind to its visitors until they prove they won’t respond to kindness.
Clíodhna was a deadly Irish goddess who should have nothing to do with arranging domestic service for hobgoblins.
The Tuatha Dé Danann observed the treaty well in most cases and rarely came to earth—the Morrigan had been a notable, pants-ruining exception, because Choosers of the Slain tended to do what they wanted and she had never agreed to the contract—but
I am fucked on the altar of any religion ye care tae name,
Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite is simply the best.
An impending tornado of self-loathing and recrimination was spiraling in my frontal lobe, and I needed to vacate the premises before it touched down and obliterated my mental landscape.
[This is an insufferable pile of mince.]
“Auggh,” he groaned. “Ghost dugs are ma least favorite kind of dugs.”
“Jesus suffering fuck,” he said. He picked up his pint and chugged the whole thing.
Did ye have a go at fixin’ yer face while I was getting the bug-sweeping kit? Because it still looks like a slapped arse.”
Georgy moved and talked fast, like he’d sprinkled his morning muffin with a dollop of fruit compote and a kilo of cocaine.
I code video games and set futons on fire. One pays the rent and the other’s a moral obligation.”
There was no way to predict how people would take news that required them to shift their paradigms. Most of the time such news just bounced off them, the way horrific shite about a candidate bounces off a party’s faithful because they can’t face the fact that they voted for a monster and they may in fact be monsters themselves. Easier to just deny it all, call it fake news. No introspection required.
Eli blinked and looked down at himself to make sure he still appeared as he had that morning. “Russia can do some impressive shit, I’ll grant you,” Eli said. “Steal-our-elections-and-install-a-puppet-and-get-away-with-it kind of shit. But I don’t think they have many brothers on their list of sleeper agents.”
Had the man never watched a single interior-design show? He had a hunter-green futon sitting next to a turquoise armoire. He should spend an hour with the Property Brothers, for crying out loud; there was no reason for such barbarism.
“Oh, aye, that’s about as cheerful as a pair of bollocks on a biscuit. Thanks, MacBharrais.”
if ye ever have the power to make someone’s dream come true and ye don’t, then what kind of a selfish shite would ye be?
“A toast! Tae inks and sigils and straight razors, tae good bosses and wizards on lizards, tae outsmarting evil when ye can and kicking its arse when ye cannae do that, and tae distillers of fine spirits everywhere. Sláinte!”
