You'll have to pay if you want to argue...

Pi

In case you missed it, yesterday was Pi Day. The day, on the Bird app replacements, Post and Spoutible, was kind of amusing. Instead of rightwing douche buckets vomiting up Tucker C. turd bombs there were folks looking to start wars over pie. One claimed that apple pie is garbage (Oh…rilly!?!), another person pedantically pointed out that cheesecake is not cake but pie (yes, true) and someone else, a well-actually type, indicated that Boston cream pie is really cake (and that's a fact).

For those dogmatists who absolutely live for verbal brawls, specious arguments and pompous rows but are tired of Sisyphean rumbles with MAGAts on Twitter, Pi Day on the civilized apps was a gift.

Me? I’ll argue if I absolutely must—if it’s a matter of life and death and shit. Otherwise, no, nee, non, nein and please-fuck-all-the-way-off-NOW. You’ll have to pay (me) if you want to argue. Even then, I'll likely refuse.

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I’m currently reading Tom Holt’s Blonde Bombshell. The most prominent blurb calls it “a  heart-warming tale of Armageddon.” I haven’t quite got to the heart-warming part yet but so far, it’s a cheery if confusing sci/fi tale about dogs, far away planets, mondo advanced technology and, of course, bombs.

Cake

At times like this René Descartes is not necessarily your friend. Descartes did say “I think, therefore I am.” Unfortunately, he left it at that. He didn’t specify what you are. I think, therefore I am a disembodied brain. I think, therefore I am at least marginally smarter than a lump of rock.

If Descartes was really on the ball, he would’ve given us a hand with that second bit. I am but WHAT am I? At the moment, I’m an old deaf broad with Neil Diamond stuck in my head.

Naturally, I blame Jen for this. Despite her love of bands like Screeching Weasel, Bad Brains  and Fugazi, Neil is her main man.

Back to Holt’s Blonde Bombshell though—so far the bomb (who has taken human form) is male and possesses a head of brown hair. I was deceived by the book’s title—I’d expected a tale about Marilyn Monroe. Possibly a romance between her and good ol' Bob Oppenheimer.

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Finally, the word for this too-windy-to-walk-outside Wednesday is Futtock. It’s a noun meaning:

any of a number of timbers forming the lower, more curved portion of the frame in a wooden hull.

Why does this word sound vaguely vulgar to me? The dictionary’s sample sentence really only makes it worse:

The futtocks creaked and groaned as the boat was tossed about in the stormy sea.

No, sorry. THIS, if you ask me, is the proper usage:

The singer’s bodacious round futtocks shook and bopped to the abso-glorious baseline of Brick House. 

YEAH baby! Also, yur welcome.