A yellow rose with a red streak;

"Did you hear about the Aggie..." Sam could hardly believe his ears, and his overflowing joy spilled out anew. "Who what?" he replied delightedly. "Who was trying to measure a flag pole with a yardstick?" "What happened?" he asked, enjoying the flavor of this fisherman's bait. "He kept starting at the bottom and counting as he went up... one, two, three... and then he couldn't reach any higher."

"Well, predictably, along came a Longhorn and solved his problem without even trying to. He plucked the flagpole straight up out of the ground, and proceeded to measure the yardstick along its horizontal length. One, two, three, four, five, he counted. 5 X 3 = 15, it's fifteen feet long."

"'Well you are no kinda help,' rejoined the irritated farmer. 'I don't want to know how WIDE it is, I want to know HOW HIGH IT WILL REACH!' U T?"

Sam's laughter was unforced. This one had been really well told. "Ursula, you are my new project to show the world how good a friend I can truly be. I think you will have to be Asparagus to my old friend Melbourne's Cobra." "I LOVE snakes," Ursula responded ingeniously. She was hardly an ingénue. "What does that have to do with Asparagus?" "A Cobra's hood that it displays at full erection when it is roused, is EXACTLY like the tip of an asparagus spear." "Do you suppose B.S. knows that?" Ursula returned knowingly. This was cause for pause to the male 5t, and he took a moment to note it because this was as close as he ever came to experiencing real Prejudice. He didn't relish the feeling, but filed the sensation away for later, and rejoined in turn, "I know you shouldn't hold ANYONE's initials against them, but isn't the old 'BS in charge of BS' usually reserved for an Aggie, a poor bastard or an Old Fool?" She knew his favor to be genuine and didn't take offense. "Brittany SPEARS," she explained, "BS in charge of Asparagus!" His burden lightened, knowing that they were not going to have to fight. "Is she Texan, or overseas assigned?" he asked. Ursula, for her own part was glad to talk to someone from a different cadre. His ignorance of her information might be complemented by novelty or variety of his own. "She's from Mark Twain territory," Ursula replied. "The stories I could tell her about OTTERS," Sam intoned. The pleasure of the company of a fellow secret society member was like illicit sex; that's probably why the French were so supportive of their partisans.

For the sake of something to talk about (he rarely rattled his teeth for the pleasure of it,) he launched out in an obvious vein. "Are the Minor family miners?" She felt her own blush of pleasure run through her, starting at the extremities and ending in the middle, with a temporary visit south of the northern border of her loins. "You have no idea how many stubborn dolts I have had to explain about the plenitude of minors the world over," she explained. "I LOVE talking about mining." Sam waited patiently, his question still in evidence. When it was obvious that politeness was no longer the issue, she continued. "We started out in Russia, back in the day. Although we are immigrants, we are Texan immigrants, and didn't stop until we were well and truly South of the Red River. Our specialty back in Russia was Salt." "Well I have to admit that practically FORCES you to appreciate the dignity of labor, so humble are those beginnings." “You have no IDEA!” she agreed. “STRIP mining was a step up both in safety and in dignity.”

"I VALUE Salt, too," he continued. "Salt licks are invaluable for wilderness reserves, and good for baiting Deer as well." "Oh Sam, FRESH water comes from wells," she teased. He briefly wondered if she was baiting him already, but, being himself a master of the art, he didn't dwell upon it. "You seem awful GENUINE," he asked in a suspicious departure. "Are you sure you are a TRUE Texan?" She tumbled to his question instantly, and showed knowledge in her response. "Well I'm sure as hell not an AUTHENTIC Texan," she growled. "Does this hair look as if it's been styled by a Ten gallon HAT?" "You got Ropers on, so that surely IS cowboy boots, making Authentic Texan a possibility, but I didn't accuse you of any other thing than being GENUINE." Their eyes met in understanding. If a Genuine Texan will do most anything for free, even give you the shirt off his back, it is his aversion to lies that makes him a danger to security the world over. On the other hand, if a True Texan will not do ANYTHING for free, and if he DOES do something for free it's a pretty good indication he's NOT a TRUE TEXAN, where were they going to stand in the sack? It was her turn to talk, so she lied accordingly. "I bet I'm better in bed than anything you ever had!" she asserted. "Two bits - there's the bank." He didn't even care who won. She showed character by demonstrating a singularly competitive streak. They celebrated with a Fosters.