Why or why not Jamie had ever felt the need to call his cat Momma was absolutely positively not Clint's business, and he let that drop faster than a dope beat. Did the kids still say that?
He plunked himself down on the couch and had to hide his face in his hands for a moment, because he was trying really damned hard not to have too much of a fit over the idea of a fireball throwing dog. It was too much. It was like -- well. He didn't really know. Pirates and ninjas, maybe? Too much of a good thing. "Dogs are cooler than stags," he decided on, once he'd built his composure back up to sort of normal human being standards.
He did not say that both of those animals were awesome at running into traffic. That seemed a bit rude, even for him.
"Okay," he went on, sort of just watching Jamie as he spoke, despite the fact that his ears were on and running smoothly. It was a habit as much as a necessity these days. "So, crash course in delicious. Tacos --" he was unloading the hefty (and admittedly sort of greasy) bag as he spoke. "Both chicken and beef. I dunno which is which. Surprise. And uh-- nachos. There's dipping stuff here -- queso, salsa, guac. I got the cilantro free kind, because I'm not into eating soap with my meal. Oh! And a quesadilla. Basically just a folded up tortilla of delicious magic." He paused. "Different magic. Oh, shit. It is racist to call things magic now?"