"Very funny," Cliff grumbled.
Isobel turned to the big Californian. "What's on the radio, Cliff?"
"Let's go get a cup of coffee," he said. "All hellzapoppin."
They went into the larger of the two Tuareg tents, and Isobel poured water from a girba into the coffee pot which she placed on a heat unit, flicking its switch. She said sarcastically, from the side of her mouth, "A message, O El Hassan, from the Department of Logistics, subdepartment Commissary of Headquarters of the Commander in Chief. Unless you get around to capturing some supplies in the near future, your food is going to be prepared over a camel dung fire. This heat unit is fading out on me."
"Don't bother me with trivialities," Homer told her. "I've got big things on my mind."
She looked at him suspiciously. "Hm-m-m. Such as what?"
"Such as whether to put my face on the postage stamps profile or full."
She said, under her breath, "I shoulda known. Already, delusions of grandeur."
"Holy Mackerel," Cliff protested. "Aren't we ever serious around this place? You two will wind up gagging with the firing squad."