I was glaring through clouds of mosquitoes at the ravaged mess that was my field. It was depressing. I’d worked hard. I’d given it an honest effort.
It was an agricultural face plant.
I’d created a big fat ugly multi-acre monument to the inherent stupidity of hippie homesteader bullshit and a giant neon “before” picture in a hypothetical advertisement for expensive modern tractors and Roundup. The weeds had overtaken the corn, the potatoes, and the deer plot. Damn!
In my defense, I’d made several “urgent” trips in the last few weeks and had no time whatsoever to maintain my field. I’d barely had time to eat and sleep.
You simply can’t do anything about a farm in the middle of nowhere when they’re in an airport in Denver getting violated by the TSA. (By the way, to the faceless TSA agent from Denver, did you like it when I cut one during the pat down? Priceless. I worked hard on the timing and was rather proud of myself. Yo quiero Taco bell baby! Here’s a hint, when random strangers can fart in your face and they wish to you will find greater pride in another line of work.)
At any rate, I’d wasted my time (and dignity) farting on TSA agents instead of maintaining my cornfield. How depressing.
Mrs. Curmudgeon always knows what to say to distract me from the woes of the world and cheer me up. “Here’s a six pack and I’m naked”. We’ll OK it wasn’t that. Instead she said “write about the pigs, that’s working out.”
So stay tuned for the story of how I will have all the bacon.