I have made a tremendous mistake (not for the first time in my career and, I promise you, not for the last.)
The seas were calm as the Sabbatical emerged from an uncharacteristically chilly Pacific. Captain Martok had a shipment of "particle board" he was transporting from Indonesia to Darwin. Coastal seas are low there, so we boarded a ready craft and made our way to a yacht owned by the Darwin Sailing and RPS Club (the yacht didn't have a sail, but I suspect the club's name is some low form of Darwinian humor.) We were warmly greeted, and quickly made our way to Newland, an artificial island not on any map, named with typical Australian creativity.
A fantastic party seemed to be taking place on the island, and I made myself at home. Dozens of Australia's most famous entertainers, musicians, sports figures, and a few politicians were feting in grandest form. I hadn't heard of any of them.
On one side of the space, some folkie named Bernard Fanning was gently strumming away on a guitar (I'd never heard of him either, but I picked up a CD.) On the other, a spectacular feast was laid out: a wide variety of meats, prawns, 'roo, vegetables and native fruits, all grilled to perfection.
In the midst of all this lavishness, I saw the familiar form of custardchuk, perhaps Australia's most famous native fruit. He, too, was grilled to perfection.
On his arm, as usual, was a red-blooded Australian lass. Probably the local asparagus festival queen, I thought to myself, though her aura was definitely more attractive than many of the other capables I've seen him with. In truth, I was paying more attention to custardchuk's lurching form than hers; I know what he's capable of when he has his "wobbly boots" on.
Custardchuk was holding (barely) a Riedel glass full of a dark, plum colored liquid. His ladyfriend was carrying two, and as I went up to meet them, she pressed one into my hand, earning immediate points. A heady floral nose assaulted me, and as soon as I sipped it, I knew I was drinking one of Chris Ringland's Three Rivers Shiraz. It was heavenly.
I looked at custardchuk's friend with growing interest. He noted this, and introduced us. "Rosh, I'd like you to meet ScissorSista. Sista, Rosh."
Could it be? Initially, I assumed that Sista was someone posting under an assumed name (a deplorable practice, but I've been told it happens.) I thought she was really Matthew Crimson, perhaps, or even custardchuk himself. Yet here she was, standing before me.
My suspicions continued...perhaps she really WAS the local asparagus queen, and chuk had persuaded her to pretend to be Sista. Yet, after a solid day of celebration, I was convinced. No one could so closely mimic the writing style of 'Sista in verbal mannerisms. Her manner was charming, bold, and adventurous.
So, there you have it. For the second time in my career, I will be forced to eat my hat (good thing it's made of bamboo, and can be easily steamed.) ScissorSista, in the Spirit of Outreach, welcome to the World RPS Society Bull Board.
I realize that doesn't let me off the hook. Take your time, babe.
ps-for the record, ScissorSista looks nothing like Klinger, though some of her features compare favorably to those of Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan during her salad days.