*plants her hands on her hips and glares* You do not want to get into a woman-off with me, man. Or a man-off, for that matter. I will clear up the nuclear fallout—as I do—and I will work the bloody press so well they will still be cleaning jizz off the ceiling come Wednesday. You? Can find your client some canapés and fucking stay out of my way.
*addressing Ecthelion in a sickly sweet, sarcastic tone* Okay, champ. Now give a couple of those paperweights to your shnoogly woogums to hold onto and come with me. You look good and pretty in your photos and give those fucking jackals a couple of decent sound bites and we'll talk about flying you home sometime this century.