That's what Leach said.

Henceforth, in conversations where the phrase, "That's what she said," would be deemed an appropriate (or inappropriate, depending on how you look at it) response to a statement or question, I, the Dread Pirate Davi, will instead respond with, "That's how I met your mom."

I, the Dread Pirate Davi, highly encourage you, my incredibly small audience, to adopt the same practice in your daily routine. Because every time you do, a fairy gets its wings. Or...no, wait...an alligator. An alligator learns to smile. Um. Listen, just do it, okay? Thanks.

The 'Rents, Days Two and Three.

Sunday: We arose from our slumber to plunder pancakes and such at the nearest Denny's. From there, Fiance jumped ship and we piled into the Redhead's fancy new SUV to set a course for the River Road and Pere Marquette. We took in the lovely weather and scenery before heading back to my house for an estrogen-filled Party Lite/Lia Sophia party. I spent too much money, Mom spent too much money, Redhead spent too much money, and I got some free stuff out of it. Dad sat in the kitchen eating the food I had set out and blissfully ignored us.

Monday: The day started with a lovely family breakfast that involved everyone eating scrambled eggs, bacon, and biscuits as their faces were glued to their respective laptops:

I took the day off from work to take the 'Rents to Cahokia Mounds (which Dad kept mispronouncing as "Cahokey Mountains"), and then we went over to the Landing for lunch and sight-seeing...and did we see some sights:

Squirrel Rape.

At first glance, I was certain that one boy squirrel was raping another boy squirrel. But after watching the video, I've come to the conclusion that these two were in fact a gay couple that had not yet agreed upon who would be the "girl" in this relationship.

The end.

Last night's dinner.

Made on a whim, but turned out GREAT: Shrimp fried rice, quick and easy.

A bag of microwaveable steamed rice.
A bag of microwaveable steamed broccoli.
Frozen de-veined, tailless shrimp.
Freshly-pressed garlic.
Freshly-ground black pepper.
Soy sauce.
One egg. (Or two, if you like.)

Microwave the bags, rice first. While waiting, heat up the butter in a skillet over medium heat, and toss in the garlic to taste (I like a lot; you might not). Toss in the thawed shrimp. Toss in the rice when it's ready, and pour in soy sauce to taste. Make sure you're stirring as you cook. (If the rice isn't FULLY cooked when it comes out of the bag, don't worry about it; once all the ingredients are in, put a lid on the skillet and whatever moisture is trapped in there will finish it off.) Throw in the broccoli when it's ready, and then add your egg(s). Keep stirring so spread the egg around as it cooks. Add black pepper to taste.

And for my next trick...flan! Stay tuned...

A quick getaway, Dread Pirate style.

"He's pretty pissed, Davi. He doesn't appreciate his authority being usurped by some crazy Puerto Rican with a penchant for shanking co-workers she doesn't like. No ma'am, there will be hell to pay."

I was driving and talking on my cell phone, which is illegal in the state of Illinois...but I had left Illinois hours ago. And I wasn't stopping to ask about local driving laws. I had somewhere to be.

"Well, Fabio*, I don't know what to tell you. I tried to keep things light when I accounced the results in the hopes that Tassel* would be less inclined towards vindictiveness. But, of course, I underestimated his love for barbecue, and must now pay the price for allowing a fair vote on Big Mama's Barbecue versus Buffalo Wild Wings." I pulled over real quick, put Fabio on speaker phone, and grabbed a box from the glove compartment. "Hey, do me a favor," I said, as I reached into the backseat to grab my shotgun off the floor, "just to be on the safe side, delete my address from the recall roster." I loaded a couple of rounds in the gun.

"Ha, right," he laughed, as if I'd cracked a joke. "That'll keep him away."

"Doesn't matter," I said, checking to make sure the knife I'd slid in my boot before fleeing was still there, "he'll find that I've already burnt the place to the ground. They'll find bodies matching mine and Fiance's dental records." I kept him on the speaker phone, placed the shotgun back on the floor in the backseat, and threw a blanket over it. "If you need me for anything, go to the Hagia Sophia in Turkey. Ask for Leroy McRory. Give him a slip of paper with the following numbers on it: 5-7-89-52-6. You wait four hours, and walk over to the crypt. I'll be waiting there." I threw the car into drive and pulled back onto Interstate 95 heading north.

"Oh. Gotcha." He sounded surprised. "So, you called in The Eraser? Damn, that Arnold is fast."

"What?" I asked, distracted. "Oh, no, no. Arnold is in retirement now. But he offers an exclusive top secret educational seminar in Napa Valley every Tuesday for anyone looking to drop off the radar...permanently. You should look into it."

"Is it pricey?"

I swerved to avoid a possum. What the fuck is a possum doing on the interstate? "Meh, kinda, but mention my name, you'll get a referral discount. Listen, gotta run." I hung up without waiting for a response, and tossed the phone out the window. My scalp was itchy; stupid wig. You shell out $2000 for a decent wig, and it's still itchy as fuck.

I went through my mental checklist again. Fiance and I had parted ways; he was on his way to the Caymans with a hefty settlement, ready to start a new life without me. He got SoCo, I kept Simi. He wasn't happy about that, but I'll be damned if I ever hit the road without that stupid cat to act as lookout during a heist. Fiance was gonna be just fine, and I've got my favorite Stuffed Rabbit in my rucksack.**

As for me, I was heading to the UK. I was thinking early retirement; wouldn't be my first one, probably wouldn't be my last. But what can I say? I piss off the wrong people pretty easily, and I'm not about to change who I am. So here I am, at the top of Ben Nevis in spring, watching the sun set. It's drizzling a little, but I'm okay with that. Simi and the Stuffed Rabbit are waiting for me back at the bed-and-breakfast. Don't bother trying to find the Dread Pirate Davi...she'll find you, when the time is right. And you better have some goddamn rum or hard cider for her.

*Names have been changed to protect the guilty.
**A story for another time.

The ‘Rents, Day One.

We had an early start to our day, but our morning was lazily spent sipping coffee, eating breakfast sandwiches, watching Netflix. Fiance went to nap, and we headed out to a winery fifteen minutes away to enjoy the sunny but chilly weather, take pictures of the lovely scenery, and enjoy some lunch (which we had to wait on for a hour, pbut what are you gonna do).

They bought me Windows 7 as a belated birthday present, and Dad successfully resuscitated my long-comatose HP laptop, yay!! Fiance awoke from his slumber, and we went to a fancy-schmancy steak house for…well, steak, DUH.

And now we’re sitting around watching Mission: Impossible III. A pleasant day, all around.

Hoist the Colours.

The king and his men stole the queen from her bed 
And bound her in her bones.
The seas be ours and by the powers
Where we will we'll roam!

Yo, ho, all hands.
Hoist the colours high.
Heave, ho, thieves and beggars,
Never shall we die!

Yo, ho, haul together.
Hoist the colours high.
Heave, ho, thieves and beggars,
Never shall we die!

Some have died and some are alive
Others sail on the sea
With the keys to the cage and the Devil to pay
We lay to Fiddler's Green!

The bell has been raised from its watery grave
Hear its sepulchral tone.
A call to all, pay heed to the squall
And turn your sail to home!

Yo, ho, haul together.
Hoist the colours high.
Heave, ho, thieves and beggars,
Never shall we die.


Dust off yer' pistols n' sabers n' boots, m' hearties. Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides comes out next year. These fair tidings fill my little black heart with joy.

Only YOU can prevent noodle fires.

Was informed by Canuck that he's such a terrible cook, he burns WATER. I would like for someone to explain to me how this is accomplished.

Shrimp-and-crab alfredo for dinner with salmon steaks. Mmmm...I'll try not to burn the noodles this time. Oh gawd. Can I just wave a magic wand and have the deliciousness appear in front of me this instance? Instead of sitting here waiting for the steaks to thaw out in the sink under running water that will be reflected on my next water bill????

The 'Rents are coming to town. It's been four years this month since they last came through. Don't fuck with me this weekend, Universe.

Slated for two trips this autumn, and very much looking forward to them. The new Harry Potter flick opens while I'm out of town, and I've already picked my IMAX theatre in that area to geek out at. I'm packing my Gryffindor tie. And I hope I get more trips next year.

I have nothing else to say.

Fire noodles.

If Fiance and Ex ever needed justification for the kitchen lurking, it just occurred about two minutes ago.

Tonight, I am a Sulky Pirate.

I think I found my soul mate, AND a way to get out of meal prep a few times a week.

Both are equally awesome.

First, my soul mate. I think she's random and funny and ridiculous. I LOVE IT. Read her blog.

Secondly. I came home and asked Fiance what he wanted for dinner. He didn't know, as usual. It's a cute little routine we have to keep things interesting in our relationship. I come home, he asks what's for dinner, I ask him what he wants, he doesn't know, but all hell will break loose if this little woman doesn't get her Puerto Rican ass in the kitchen AND MAKE A GODDAMN SAMMICH. It's how we say "I love you."

ANYWAYS. I suggested chicken spaghetti, because we've had a package of ground chicken in the fridge since Sunday. (If you have not had ground chicken in your spaghetti...shame on you.) He said, "I don't really feel like making that." Um. I'm gonna make it. "Well, if you feel like making it..."

I was sitting here reading the blog of my new soul mate (I promised her I wouldn't stalk her...that's cool, right??), and he asked me when I was making dinner. So I stood up to make it. He followed me into the kitchen, asking me if I needed help. I politely declined. You see...[can i pause for moment? i fucking HATE typing on this laptop. my browser will do all kinds of random things that my fingers do not ask it to do. it's stupid.]...Fiance and Ex-Husband (Surprise, I'm divorced!! Unless you've been following me from the beginning...then it's not a surprise. Carry on.) have one tiny little thing in common...they like to fucking LURK in the kitchen while Yours Truly is cooking. Why?? Because in their eyes, my cooking expertise is lacking. Now, Fiance tolerates what I make for dinner most of the time. But when it comes to chicken spaghetti?? Adult supervision is required.

So even though I had politely declined his assistance, he ignored me and began pulling out pots and pans, and informed me that HE would be cooking. Oh, but I am allowed, in fact I am REQUIRED, to prepare the noodles. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Also, he never bothers tasting the food first, he just immediately grabs the Cavender's Greek Seasoning, dumps a bunch on, and then digs in. Did I mention he was walking around telling his family that I'm a terrible cook when we were in New York last December??

Gotta run...I have noodles to boil.

A bad case of writer's block and missing notes.

It really depresses me how little progress I've made in my writing over the years. I have three-point-five stories floating around in my head that are little more than scribbled notes and an a half-completed chapter here or there. Every once in a great while, I'll go into a frenzy, and scribble furiously for pages on end. But inevitably, I fail to transcribe the notes onto my laptop, and they get mixed up or misplaced.


What's that?? Oh, yeah. Yeah, look at me, yet another blogger with weak aspirations for published fame. Woo.

Rally to Restore Sanity.

James Poniewozik's column Tuned In in this week's Time Magazine, entitled The 15% Solution.

Do we really need comedians to take politics back from the lunatics? Apparently, yes.

Are Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert joking? For The Daily Show and Colbert Report hosts, the answer has always been an emphatic yes and no. Their programs, they demur, are just fake-news comedy shows, but ones run on the principle that every joke needs to have an idea behind it.
    On Sept. 16, Stewart announced what could be his biggest joke - and biggest idea - yet. Three weeks after Fox News melodramatist Glenn Beck held his Restoring Honor rally in Washington, Stewart announced his own march on the Mall: the Oct. 30 Rally to Restore Sanity.
    The premise: most Americans would be willing to have reasonable discussions about how to solve our problems, but the conversation in the U.S. has been hijacked by the looniest, most intense 15% or so of us - the ranter, the ragers, the people who think Obama is a secret Muslim commie or who thought Bush was Hitler. "Why don't we hear from the other 70% to 80%?" Stewart asked. "Most likely because you have s___ to do." For one day, Stewart and Colbert (who will hold the concurrent tongue-in-cheek March to Keep Fear Alive) aim to give that majority a voice. If it can get a baby-sitter.
    The premise is a joke on its face: a "Million Moderate March," a protest for non-protesters, channeling the rage of the reasonable. But the idea behind it is dead-on. Like so many of Stewart's and Colbert's gags, it spoofs not just political buffoons but the press that enables them.
    After all, the 15 Percenters haven't become influential alone. We live in the "if it screeds, it leads" era. The way to protest the "insensitivity" of an Islamic center near Ground Zero is to drag a decommissioned missile to the site. The way to get a job in cable news is to accuse a Supreme Court justice of bestiality. The way to air your differences is to call the President a Kenyan anti-colonialist (Newt Gingrish) or Sarah Palin a Taliban mullah (Michael Moore). The press lurches from sideshow to sideshow: we've heard more about Tea Party Senate candidate Christine O'Donnell's positions on masturbation and witchcraft than on how (speaking of magic) she'd balance the budget while cutting taxes.
    Media outlets that aren't hiring or promoting 15 Percenters are cowed by them. On Sept. 11, the Portland (Maine) Press Herald ran a photo and article about local Muslim Americans celebrating the end of Ramadan. After complaints that it had not been "balanced" with a reminder of the 2001 terrorist attacks, the paper's publisher apologized - though the human-interest feature was no different from the ones that are run every Easter or Rosh Hashanah.
    Every time this happens, the 15 Percenters get a little more powerful. Every time this happens, the incentive scale for journalists and activists is tilted toward thrown stunts and blown gaskets. Pundits start praising politicians' ability to channel their constituents' anger. The movie Network - in which a raving, ratings-grabbing television anchor eggs on viewers to get "mad as hell" - begins to look less like a cautionary tale and more like an instructional video.
    I would not have expected to use the adjective Nixonian to describe Stewart and Colbert. But in trying to give a voice to people who just want America to chill the hell out, they're redefining Nixon's concept of the Silent Majority - or as the rally's website calls it, "the Busy Majority." Four days after Stewart made his plans for the rally public, more than 100,000 people had signed up on Facebook to attend.
    Christening movements and majorities is a tricky business for funnymen, though: oft the path of righteousness doth lead to Dennis Miller. Stewart went on CNN's Crossfire in 2004 and asked the hosts to "stop hurting America" with shows that celebrated argument; Colbert went in front of the White House Correspondents' Dinner in 2006 with a scathing in-character routine about journalists' passivity. These moments made them heroes to some, but too much earnestness, as they themselves have said, kills comedy.
    One difference here is that Stewart and Colbert are not offering answers; they're saying that their fans are empowered to come up with the answers. Another difference is that the rally is mocking the media, as much as anything else, for its fascination with shiny objects - through the meta-tactic of creating one. The very idea that in the U.S. today you have to hold a protest to promote rational discourse is absurd. It's funny because it's true.
    Stewart's popular image, as National Public Radio once described it, is that of "the last sane man in a world gone mad." He's not - not by a long shot. The point of the Oct. 30 rally is to prove that most of us are sane and therefore ignored. But he and Colbert seem to be the last men in the media who know how to build an institution on sanity instead of by chasing the latest flavor of crazy. Are they joking? The question should be, Is America serious?

 I'll see you guys in DC on the 30th.

HE bought the booze. I did not ask for it.

Today I chose to patronize the local Bread Co for my midday meal. I was joined by Brother Leach, Canuck of the North, and RG (minus his stolen vespa). RG and Leach had not met prior. RG asked how Leach and I knew each other. At first, we joked.

L: We don't.
D: No, we don't. After six and a half years, I don't know you at all.

We are so silly sometimes.

L: She helped me get my Article 15*.
D: Well, you helped me get an LOR**!!
L:...true.
D: And you bought the booze. I did not ask for it.

And that is the very-detailed and thoroughly-explained story of how the dynamic duo of Almight Davi and her Chariot Master met and adopted each other.

Disclaimer: That's not really the whole story. Maybe I'll go into detail...another time.

* Article 15 - An article of the Uniformed Code of Military Justice. It is non-judicial punishment handed down by one's commander, and is the highest form of punishment without being court-martialed or going to jail. It follows you around for the rest of your military career.
*LOR - Short of Letter of Reprimand, it is a written memorandum that is one step down from an Article 15, and remains in your personnel file for a year before being shredded. While it is in your file, it can have an impact on performance reports, awards, and promotions.

Sunday Funday: Not so much.

Welp, done with reserves for the weekend. SoCo just puked on two different spots on the carpet, and we're out of cat litter. Fiance is sleeping the day away before having to go to work tonight. I'm still sitting here in my uniform.

...so, what now??

You won't see this shit on Scrubs.

A real-life conversation between myself and Brother Leach, via text message, on 7 July 2010, during the AM:

Leach: hey, real sorry to do this...i have a conference call at 1130 i really need to be on. can we rain check for tomorrow or friday?

Davi: You always do this! What about my needs?! Sure, that's cool. :P

Leach i'm sorry that i can't fulfill your desires. i guess i'm not the man i thought i was ='(

Davi: BWAHAHAHA.

Leach: so does that make up for my inadequacies?

Davi: You're a doctor. You're in the clear...FOR NOW...

Leach: so would you be willing to say that my trust is on...LIFE SUPPORT?

Davi: I would say it's in critical condition, but stable. We just need to keep it over night for observation.

Leach: ...that's what she said.

Davi: That's what I said.

Leach: you did say that.

Davi: I did. What are you gonna do about?

Leach: i'm gonna fight about it.

Davi: You can't. You're a doctor. If you fight, you lose your non-combatant status, and then the terrorists win.

Leach: i will fight with telekinesis. also, with scalpels. cave-dwelling guerrilla warfare experts have nothing on my scalpel prowess.

Davi: I...can't argue with that. If anyone challenged you about the scalpels, you could claim you were attempting to perform surgery on a patient who didn't want to be operated on by a white devil infidel.

Friday Funnies.

First of all, someone please buy me this. I want to hand the posters up at work, and then point at them in a manic and furious manner whenever we're writing a report.

And after you've bought it for me, sign me up for this class. I don't want to be caught off-guard when the zombie apocalypse begins.

Lastly, the nose of  Lady Liberty would look fabulous hanging up on my wall, right next to Van Gogh's ear. Maybe for Christmas??