It’s the Pitts: FYI

I’ve been writing a weekly column for 46 years, and people often ask me where I get my ideas. My answer is always the same, “From you.”

I am gifted with the remarkable talent of “directional hearing.” I can be in a crowded convention center with 1,000 people in it and somehow listen to a couple out on the periphery argue about who made a sexier cowboy – Costner or Eastwood. It was definitely Clint by the way. 

I’m also a pretty fair lip reader, so no one’s conversation is safe.

Here’s an example.

When I was a road agent, whenever I got stuck in this particular cow town, I’d frequent a restaurant called Dirty Mike’s. After Dirty Mike died, people started calling the place the Burp and Belch, but I think its real name is Heimlich’s. If not, it should be.

The last time I was there, the place was packed with cowboys and roustabouts, but clear across the room, I could hear a hippie couple arguing about which was greener – a Prius or a Tesla. 

He was about 65, nearly bald except for a ponytail of white hair, was wearing a diamond earring in both ears and was dressed in cargo pants, flip flops and a Hawaiian shirt. I figured him for a retired philosophy professor. 

His arguing companion was female – I think – who was attired in a tie-dye T-shirt, shorts that were stretched to their outer limits and shoes made from plastic. If she didn’t work for the government in some capacity, I’ll eat the paper this is printed on. 

I listened to their enviro-twaddle until I couldn’t take it anymore, then I made a few notes on a napkin and gave it to them as I left. 

It said: 

FYI, I’d like to set you straight on a few things.

I’m sorry they had no vegan fare, but you probably shouldn’t go looking for it in a restaurant with 12 white pickup trucks parked out front, all with border collies in the back. 

Also, there is no “Brussels Sprout Surprise” on the menu, it’s probably just a dried gob of gravy. 

Your waiter won’t know if the water is gassed, pre-bubbled or comes in a green bottle all the way from France. 

Everything is fried in this joint except the coffee, the ice cream and the pie. 

Also, there is no free-range chicken in the chicken fried steak. Come to think of it, there’s no chicken in it at all.

There is too plenty to see in this “hick town,” you just gotta know where to look, and those “weird-looking” animals you saw on your way into town weren’t some kind of camel, even if they did have a hump in their back. Those were some of Rodeo Bill’s bucking bulls. 

I’m sure Bill wouldn’t mind if you climbed his nine-wire electric fence to go pet the nice bullies.

You won’t find anyone in this municipality who knows the secret to world peace, but they are smart enough to know cows do far more burping than farting, cattle aren’t destroying the ozone and, as a general rule, bovines don’t eat trees.

No, the building where you saw all of those pickups, trailers and big cattle trucks parked is not a slaughterhouse.

It’s the auction barn, and today is sale day. 

If you insist on eating vegan around here, your best bet is the sale barn café. If you go, make sure and speak in a real loud voice so all of the ranchers can hear you say you want a Beyond Beef burger. 

Please be advised, there’s also no place in town to buy four new tires for your Smart Car to replace the slashed ones.

If you couldn’t tell by all of the pumpjacks and drilling rigs, this is fossil fuel country. I hope you’re greenie car is all “gassed” up, because you won’t find a public space to get free juice within 300 miles of here.

I’ve always found the people here to be friendly, but then I don’t have a bumper sticker on my car saying, “Ban Fracking Now” or “Make Our Planet Green Again.”

Finally, cows don’t live in feedlots. In fact, most cows have never stepped foot in one. 

It might surprise you to learn we’re vegetarians too, only we’re the second-hand kind – cows eat the grass and we eat the cows.