“Keep your paws off my fiancèe, you flea-ridden stray!”

“Take your filthy paws off my son, you whore, and get out of my house-now!" She hisses through gritted teeth.”

“Margaret looked up at him from where she sat by the window."Oh, Brother Gregory, what's wrong with your hand""I'm just scratching it; it itches.""Really, is it red?""No, it's just a bite. You gave me a flea.""I don't have fleas, Brother Gregory," insisted Margaret."Everyone has fleas, Margaret. It's part of God's plan.""I don't. I wash them off.""Margaret, you haven't any sense at all. They just hop back. You can't wash enough to keep them off.""I do.""Aren't you afraid your skin will come off? It could, you know. That's much worse than fleas." Brother Gregory spoke with an air of absolute certainty."Everyone tells me that. It hasn't come off yet.""Margaret, you're too hardheaded for your own good. Now take for your next sentence, 'Fleas do not wash off.'""Is this right?" She held up the tablet, and Brother Gregory shook his head in mock indignation."I despair of you, Margaret. Flea is not spelled with one e--it's spelled with two.”

“Namaste, Prince of Naga-loka. I'm grateful. You're a fine fellow." He stuck out his tongue and grinned wickedly. "For a royal wriggler.""Namaste, O flea-ridden tree-climber," Shesha replied, with a fond glint in his eyes. "May your life be as long as you insolence is great.”

“Get off me, you lard-ass, halitosis, flea-infested horror-movie reject! (Alexion)”

“Henry,that's how you get rid of fleas. You keep them from laying eggs. You go to war with them.”