Let’s just jump in this week:

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While mentioning a topic of conversation I had a few days ago, I told Hammerpants that oldest of rules: Don’t fuck the crazy. We laughed and he agreed and the term got repeated, as it is wont to do.

Except then we noticed M standing nearby staring at us with open confusion all over her face.

“What?”

“I don’t know what the context is but I’m not sure I want to.”

See, it turns out she heard: “Don’t fuck the gravy.” I pointed out that Dustin sometimes calls Kirkbride Gravy and that they should, in fact, not fuck. But in general it was one of those terms you want to find a use for but end up just leaving on the floor.

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Outside for a minute, and what a nice night it was, I saw a guy on his cel having this perfectly angry conversation.

“No,” he said, spitting out the words, “we’re in the same boat! We both want to make cookies but I have no brown sugar!” I mean this man sounded pissed. Beyond pissed. Startlingly mad.

And I snickered, inside. He continued to rant to whomever was on the other end of the phone and finally I said, loudly enough to be heard, “S’Mores.”

Now, understand I said it just to see what would happen. So, what happened?

“What?” He asked even as he barked “No, hold on!” into his phone.

“S’Mores,” I repeated casually.

He looked at me, frowned and then returned to his call. “Change of plans, I’ll be right there.” and he took off at a quick walk. I would assume they made S’Mores.

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Blues band comes on, and they’re doing all right. Tossing out some good tunes. Suddenly, the lead singer says something about a song he wrote and starts to sing it. It’s a song about his woman, who he nicknamed “Gravy”. We lost it. M, when she realized, shook her head, laughing and walked away.

That was, truthfully, the proper response.

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I need to give a shout out to Butte, Montana today. Group of folks who are from there at one or another point in their lives. Good kids. Contagious amount of spunk and vim and vigor. They were just having such a good time everyone else had a better time because of them. Go Butte!

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M herself was jaunty. She was just jaunty, last night. Jaunty I tell you!

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I went to the bathroom and by the time I came back my drink (which was empty when I left mind you) had been replaced by a tiny Chinese happy cat (I mean the size of a joint of my pinky when I say small) and a 90% deflated balloon.

The balloon had been in the drink well, where it didn’t belong. The ceiling has a bunch of balloons, mind you. Anyway M decided that if it didn’t belong in the drink well it belonged on my napkin, on the other side of the bar. Along with the tiny little happy cat that came with something she was snacking on. Cute tiny happy cat, mind you.

The balloon? Not so cute. It used to be white. But mostly deflated and shrunken and sitting in a drink well and a gray little balloon … well it gets batted around like we’re all about five anyway, I won’t lie to you.

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Coming home I tried to hail a cab. The cab just kept going. I decided he didn’t like the cut of my jib. Which made us realize that that is what Mr. T is on about all the time. He wants no jibba jabber. No talk about jibs. At all. He does not enjoy a good jib discussion in the least.

He is anti-jib, that Mr. T is. I am pro-jib, and eventually another cab enjoyed the fine cut of my jib and stopped. Take that, Mr. T!

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And now, Silent Library, one of my favorite Japanese TV bits.