Do not own Buffy or The Simpsons. No offence intended, or profit made.

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“Why do you insist on calling us demons?” the girl asked, frustrated.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” the tiny blonde asked. “You're yellow, you have three fingers, and, honestly, how many eighth birthdays do you need? And let's not get onto the issue of your parents!” she shuddered.

“What's the problem with my parents?” the little, yellow, three-fingered girl growled.

“Blue hair! Who has blue hair?”

“Lot's of people have blue hair,” the girl asserted. “All over the place.”

“Yeah, but that comes out of a bottle. Your mother's hair is naturally blue.”

“Yeah, like yours is naturally blonde,” the girl snarked back.

The doubtful blonde gasped. “Do I need to go on about your father?”

“Please don't,” the girl whimpered.

“I swear, if his drool paralyses people, and then sets like cement, I'm declaring him a fyarl, and dealing with him.”

“Ha! Got you there! Dad doesn't have horns!”

The little blonde tilted her head as she considered the girl. “And how do you know about fyarls?”

“Er...”