Do as thou wilt, so long as thou art farmer. How hard is that, city slicker? You saw our commercial and you joined. We had one rule - one simple goddamn rule - and you broke it. Oh, no, you aren't leaving the romance barn today. Because the elders have been notified and they will be arriving shortly from the silo. Interlopers are entitled to no romance and no quarter. No more sipping the sweet brew from the red cups.
Did you think you could get away with it? Put on a western shirt and some blue jeans and you can fool all the yokels. Is that what you thought? You Warby Parker motherfucker. With your Coach boots and that piece of shit bolo tie. Farmers don't wear bolo ties. We don't wear any ties. They'll get caught in a combine.
I've always suspected you of being an impostor. You didn't know the farmer handshake, the farmer whistle or the farmer kiss. You didn't smell like the inside of a goat and all your denim shirts weren't sweat stained. We should have seen it all, but we weren't sure until we Googled your address.
For over seven thousand years, farmers have only intermingled their seed with other farmers. Human kinds have diverged, creating distinct races. We are the farmers, those of the old ways of the soil, the blood, and the leaf. You are the city monkeys, those of glass and electricity, who betray the origin of all life for the false pleasures of the machine.
Did you watch the finale of Mad Men? Oh, you did? You see, because I didn't, since I get up at 3 AM to milk my hogs and I go to bed exhausted and caked in manure at 7 PM. The only reason I've even heard about Mad Men is because a farmer was consulted for a horse scene. Oh, do not fear, his betrayal of our kind was punished. The nice thing about pigs is that they will dispose of whatever you need to dispose of, whether it's silage, garbage or a traitor.
Grain crops of the 21st century would be unrecognizable to farmers from 7,000 years ago. Thousands of generations of selective breeding have produced larger crops, resistant to pests, able to grow in more arid climates and survive harsher winters, and very resistant to the potent pesticides used to keep bugs off your plate. We farmers are the same way. Our careful policy has resulted in the eight foot tall, corn silk blond, permanently "farmer's tan" perfection of the men and women you see before you.
Do you feel that trembling beneath your $400 boots? That would be the approach of the elders. The sky darkens and the birds take flight by the hundreds. Thank your gods that you never touched a farmer's titty. If you had touched a farmer's titty or kissed them down south you would most certainly be facing corn rows. That's where they plant you in the ground so only your head is sticking up.
Behold the elders. Archer Daniels journeys from the Midlands, where soy blankets the land from horizon to horizon. Stag-headed John Deere presides over the corn and our Lady of DuPont makes the skies blue. Monsanto, faceless and inscrutable, heaves into our midst, a living rhizome, here, there and everywhere.
They chant, "Liar! Fraud! City monkey!"
I am afraid your punishment is clear. Banishment. For the remainder of your miserable, city-dwelling life, you will have to be lonely. We are terminating all access to Farmers Only Dot Com.
Also you are never allowed to eat corn again.
After years of being misunderstood, I had hoped we finally had "our" story. I was wrong.
He had a yellow inflatable tube around his waist, the kind with a comical duck head. There was a tiny fish in one of his hands, and a trident in the other. In the background a squirrel wearing shades was water skiing.
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