I hate fried rice.  Once when I was in Mexico on a Stanley Tucci fact-finding expedition, I met a young woman named Lupe Aguasvivas.  I had injured myself on a hike outside of the small town of Ciudad de las Heces where she lived.  There in the squalor of the abandoned restaurant her town used as a hospital, she nursed me back to health.  The year was 1921, a little over seven years since the passing of my beloved Clementine, and Lupe's tenderness touched my heart in a way I had not thought possible.  Lying there one night, covered in the light of a dying sun, I swore that I would cherish Lupe and take care of her by any means possible.  But Lupe was married to a tyrant of a man by the name of Eduardo; a nefarious rogue with a curled mustache who was clearly of Spanish ancestry, and not a native like my gentle Lupe.

One day while Lupe was tending to her charges (there were many of us) Eduardo dropped by.  This vile man handled Lupe in most distasteful ways, doing things like hugging her and kissing her on the cheek.  Lupe was too kind to show her disgust and in fact pretended to enjoy his company.  When the rascal called her "mi amor" I leapt from my cot and as I had no arms, head-butted him in an attempt to challenge him to a duel.  But being of low birth, Eduardo misinterpreted my gentlemanly gesture and proceeded to pummel me into the ground.  When I awoke later I discovered that Eduardo had absconded with my Lupe.  The new nurse said Lupe had quit in disgust at my behavior, but I knew the man was keeping her against her will.

So where was I?  Ah yes.  I hate fried rice.  No, not because of my trip to Mexico.  In fact, I do not know if the Mexicans even have fried rice.  I never had any while I was there.  The only fried rice I have ever had is the oily kind found in Chinese chop houses.  So why did the subject make me think of Lupe?  I do not know.  Stupid fried rice.