John has endured many reactions to his jokes, over the years. For the past ten thousand, those reactions have been pretty restrained. It's bad form to groan at God's puns, apparently; it's forbidden to turn around and slug him. This means he is completely unprepared for the moment Waver throws a vase of flowers in his face.

God recoils with a splutter. There are little bits of leaf sticking to his brow, water dripping down his chin. He now has a lapful of soggy and aggressively fragrant roses, some with the thorns still on. He picks these up gingerly and sets them on the table while Waver collapses in utter, horsey anguish.

"Fair, but. For sake of argument. You do appear to be a horse."