Some days, it just doesn't pay to get out of bed.

We are not going to die."

Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?"

"No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.

There are old swordsmen and bold swordsmen. But few old, bold swordsmen.

Coz," he said. "You really must learn to shut your mouth from time to time. You'll taste less shoe letter.

Come with me if you want to live.

Gandalf never had this kind of problem.
He had exactly this problem, actually, standing in front of the hidden Dwarf door to Moria. Remember when . . .
I sighed. Sometimes my inner monologue annoys even me. “Edro, edro,” I muttered. “Open.” I rubbed at the bridge of my nose and ventured, “Mellon.”
Nothing happened. The wards stayed. I guessed the Corpsetaker had never read Tolkien. Tasteless bitch.