Trelawney finally had enough. She marched to the front doors, her parading minions in her wake, and barged in, the bell on the door jangling as they poured into the dining area. “YOU!” she said, pointing at the guy running the grill with an outstretched finger. She stood tall and defiant as Galadriel at the mirror pool. “Defiler! You desecrate the sacred acolyte's ascension with your ROASTED FLESH OF MURDER!”

The teenager wielding the spatula blinked. “Uh, no, it's cow, I'm pretty sure,” he said.

Trelawney gave him a half-shriek of disgust. She turned to Taylor and all but flung herself on her knees. “Please do not do this, anointed one,” she half-whimpered. “Don't pollute your ascended body with the flesh of innocent animals!”

Taylor gave her a contemptuous look. “Madame Trelawney, what did you tell me your spirit animal was again?”

“The great horned owl, herald of wisdom, and the white fox, who--”

“And what do you think owls and foxes live on-- celery sticks?” Taylor snorted. “Go away, Madame Trelawney,” she sing-songed, “your spirit animals are laughing at you.”

The Tambourine Heads who had followed her in gasped in scandalized shock. Trelawney shot to her feet in a towering rage and opened her mouth to go into one of her famous squalling, honking tirades