Writer's Block: Another day, another bandit

If you were a detective (fictional or real), who would be your arch nemesis? Would you have a catch phrase? If so, what would it be?

Fictional me is, first off, a horrible detective. I am absolutely terrible at what I do. I miss little details constantly. I miss medium-size details. ...I prettymuch miss even pretty big, obvious details that even small children notice before I do. I don't even know what detectives do. They...I detect?...whatever. I'm drunk constantly. The only reason I got my job as a detect...er...person is because I live in a very small town where everyone's also too drunk to notice I don't know what I'm doing and I thought it'd be a great title to come back to my high school reunion with.

That said, my arch nemesis is a guy from out of town known only (mysteriously) as Steve. Steve routinely sets out to sabotage me, usually by going up to people when I'm on a case and saying things like, "You know, I'm pretty sure she's not actually a detective. I mean, she's taking down what you say with a crayon on a paper placemat treasure map she found at McDonalds. Look, she's not even writing down what you're saying. She's coloring Grimace in. And that's not even a purple crayon. Grimace isn't red. What...why are you still telling her things?"

But I'm a fighter, determined to never let him have the upper hand, evident in my catchphrase of "Shut up, Steve".
Davison's a peeeeyomp

Writer's Block: Ground Control to Major Tom

What kind of craft would you design to travel through time and space? How would it work? What would it look like?

Well, I think I'd get sued if I used an old blue police box, flying DeLorean, or magical hot tub. Plus, they all have their flaws. The TARDIS breaks constantly (and can only be piloted by a time lord. And last time I called David Tennant up and asked him if he'd fly his big blue box into my time vortex, I got a restraining order). Each time I've tried to fuel the DeLorean up, I've had to fend off a large number of Libyan terrorists in hippie buses and old men screaming about sports almanacs (oh, and every DeLorean comes with a trunk full of coke. Like I need to explain THAT to the police again). With the hot tub, I have to be on the lookout for that dick Chevy Chase in case he shows up to try and "fix" it. Then he'll launch into his whole "I scored with Laraine Newman 50 times during SNL and Bill Murray should die of Super AIDS" shpeel and four hours later, I'll have to kick him out of the house as he sobs about how nobody understands what comedic genius "The Chevy Chase Show" was...

But I digress. My time/space machine will be a gigantic replica of Samuel L. Jackson's head. In fact, I've already built the prototype, pictured here being tested on a quick run to 1939:

There are still some bugs to work out. Right now, it shoots its occupants and keeps yelling "I've had enough of these monkey-fighting snakes on this Monday through Friday plane!". But I'm getting there.