Rincewind's relief at having been right for a change is tempered by indignation. "I didn't make the mess; they did!" He sounds like a four-year old who needs a nap or a swat or both. "They should pick it up, not me!"
He huffs a bit, but silently. No sense risking those teeth. Rincewind turns slowly, wondering why there's never a handy lightning bolt about when you really need one. He shuffles off to the giant's table. If he knew The Charge of the Light Brigade, he'd be reciting it.