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Lee Pitts

California cattleman Lee Pitts provides his brand of humor on issues surrounding the ag industry.

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The soundtrack of my life has been the chant of an auctioneer.

In the past 43 years, I have attended thousands of auctions and have seen auctions from every angle as a consignor, buyer, ring man, clerk, auctioneer, gate man and announcer of a video auction company for 20 years that sold nearly half-a-million head per year.

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“Why are you walking with a limp?” I asked my friend ReRide.

“It’s a long story. Basically, it’s because Honey Bunch and Archibald came for their annual visit.”

“That’s your sister-in-law and her wimpy third husband, isn’t it?”

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Every year, my in-laws make it a point to invite someone to Christmas dinner who is poor, downtrodden and an outcast from society. Usually it’s me, so it’s no surprise when I receive a polite request every year to drive five hours one way to attend their annual Christmas feast.

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I love art, and the walls of my home are covered with it. I’m talking real art, not that abstract/impressionism garbage like the stuff shown at a modern art show in New York years ago where the judges accidentally gave “Best In Show” to an air conditioning vent that wasn’t even entered in the competition.

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I don’t do meetings because once you’ve been to an FFA meeting, everything else is amateur hour. Attend any meeting today, and you’ll see folks holding a discussion without a motion on the floor, no flag salute and no knowledge whatsoever of Robert’s Rules of Order.

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I could never be a purebred breeder because I couldn’t get all the paperwork done, especially naming the animals. It’s hard enough coming up with titles to my weekly columns, but to have to name 500 or 1,000 cattle every year would drive me even more crazy.

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