Pi Aren’t Squared; Pi Are Yoda


So. Another glorious near-fall weekend has closed and things are better in Austin, Texas. It rained over much of Central Texas, my beloved Longhorns won a big game, and both pro football teams logged a W. As for the rain, it missed the ranch but hit most everywhere else, so that’s a win too.

I’m not a true fan of our pro teams because Jerry Jones is an asshole more concerned with his ego than great football. I’m not a true Houston fan because I grew up a Cowboy fan. I was born shitting burnt orange and pissing white, so it was only natural that I be a University of Texas man.

It took old Doc Ashburn a couple of months to determine that the UT-colored discharges of my infancy were due to my Gram’s potions, and not any serious medical condition. He was worried that I had bad kidneys or a fried liver causing the vivid-hued poops and peeps. Or that I might possibly be the devil’s spawn.

“Aw that’s jist tha persimmon inna one potion anna chalk in tha other,” Gram explained to the doctor during my third monthly visit. “Had ta stop with tha alfalfa an skunk juice, though. Bright green shit what smells lik a skunk’s ass was unsettlin’.”

Maybe that explains my fascination with my bowel movements. I have a suspicion that most folks spend far less time examining their poops than do I. Did you like the way I said, “Than do I…,” as opposed to saying, “Than I do…”[?] I was talking to this woman at the bookstore yesterday, a snooty younger lady wearing Birkenstock sandals, hiker’s shorts and a man’s cotton button-down shirt.

She was medium height (and why not “heighted”[,] since we say “weighted”), wore her auburn hair long and clasped neatly in a tortoise shell keeper, and everything about her seemed to scream, “I know better than you will ever know.”

I was looking at the murder mystery books to find something that might occupy my fevered brain. My ADHD has been on the fritz something crazy—appropriate for a crazy man yet not a constant state—and I was thinking that a nice murder would help me calm my mental storms.

Let me stop here to say that this particular brain fritz, while intense, has not been unsettling. This fritz’s influences on my system is more akin to a splinter under my right index fingernail rather than to have the soft skin of my pecker caught in the rusty zipper of a pair of my daddy’s old coveralls. I can’t tell you the zipper story as it is in the book, but you shouldn’t require any additional information to understand that this current brain fritz is one of minor consternations.

So the young lady was looking at me looking at the murder mysteries. She was staring, actually, and with a haughty stare at that. I’d check a book jacket, decide against it and place it back to the shelf. I’d check the woman’s stare, un-shelf another prospect, reject it and re-shelf, and check the stare.

“Are you looking for inspiration for your own selections, or do you find me sexy?” I asked the studious starer. “You’ll find I have quite good taste in murder mysteries, and the ladies find me quite tasty.”

I find myself quite clever in close encounter social settings, a belief not always shared. “Actually, I was just waiting to see if my instant evaluation of your personality is accurate,” she answered. “To respond to your classless and inappropriate comment, good taste in murder mysteries is akin to having a preference as to choice of cigarette brand. Only individuals of low class and self esteem ever develop that taste.”


“As for your tasteless sexual innuendo, I can only guess that your class of women have far lower standards than do I.”

I bought the new Mitch Rapp novel, American Assassin, and I’ve already forgotten the author’s name even though he is a favorite. It’ll come to me. I finished the book just before midnight and tried to sleep. The two dogs, Squirt and soon-to-not-be-named- Pi, have started to compete for bed space with each other. Each wants to be either between my legs, with their head nestled beside my pecker when I’m on my back, or in the crook of my knees—with the top of their head pressed against my ass—when I shift to my side.

They prefer me to sleep on my back. That way they can be staring holes in my face at 5 am when they awaken me to eat. OK, got it. Vince Flynn is the author of the Mitch Rapp novels. Great reads one, and all. And it’s alright to start with this last one because it’s a prequel sort of dealie.

Anyway, I didn’t get much rest last night because the two dogs kept nudging each other to jockey positions, and Honor the cat parked her carcass on my pillow at my neck. It was like trying to sleep on the rubber sheets in the holding tank over to the loony bin. Nerve wracking and hot as hell.

So we’re all sitting for breakfast an hour ago. I placed Pi on a chair beside me because I’m teaching him take it/leave it—the dog trick where the dog either does or doesn’t eat or go to something. I’m putting different food items on the table in front of him and telling him to take the things he can eat, and to leave the rest.

Gram is staring at the bug-eyed little shit with the same look I got from the lady in the bookstore. “Yodel,” Gram said. “He looks lik Yodel.”

Huh? Yodel?

Then I got it. “You are correct sir,” I told my grandmother. “He’s the splitting image of that Star Wars guy, Yoda.”

After I finish this bloggie dealie, I’m taking the Squirt and Yoda back to the bookstore so I can get another book to read, and then we’re going grocery shopping at the farmers’ market. Then we’ll go home, load the wheeled cooler with Carta Blanca and head to the lake. Manana, y’all.

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