Proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing

The male animal's genetic code has been ingrained with oddities such as the peacock syndrome, muscle flexing, and the ridiculous theory of two heads being better than one. Just because they were born with the duality, does not make it a logical assumption. Like I heard one woman put it, "With one of these, I can get as many of those as I want!"

I think that geography is a large contributor to the general consensus on virility. In California, men tend to compare the contents of their yuppie garages; In locker rooms, they are exceedingly consumed with physical attributes; in Missouri, it's the I'm a bigger hillbilly than you competition. Never before have I witnessed such absurdities as I have here among the ranks of the proud-to-be-an-American-farmer-even-if-I-did-grow-up-without-indoor-plumbing folk.

These farmers get together and they start spitting and picking and urinating in a no-holds-barred fashion. For instance, my John is not a spitter, but if you put him next to a man that does, the mucus begins to fly.
The concrete pad for my new store was poured the other day by a typically farm-reared pair of men. The young one was quiet and unassuming, the straight man in the unlikely duo. The older one, a genuine corn-pone and damn proud of it. He was a real character right out of Lil' Abner. I wouldn't classify him as being lacking in intelligence, quite the contrary. He had a lot to say about pert near everything. A real well-spring of acquired knowledge. How he acquired it remains a mystery, one I feared tackling for fear of it costing me a few more hours wages, as he's given to gab.

"We had ground hog fer dinner la's-nigh and we didn't even have to watch for buckshot! Man was 'at good! The woman used the right fire arm that time." He patted his belly to punctuate, which I thought was right nice. Given the flow of the conversation I was expecting a gastrointestinal-symphony to drive home the importance of a woman knowing her duties since I had already voiced my displeasure in the stereotypical and all the baggage that goes with it.

A collector of antiquities, he was fascinated with my massive collections of bound redundancies. His cursory regard a red herring that led to a homily on the per pound rate for paper at the local recycling plant ( a guy with a scale, a school bus and two storage sheds).

When his toothpick swung round to the 'tother side `o his mouth I could sense the shift in conversation coming with the next heave of his chest. He asked if I had any shoe buttoners.

"Ya know what a mean don't cha?"
"Of course", I ventured,"I found lots of old shoe leathers from those button top shoes when we cleaned out the barn, but no buttoners. "
"I c'lect `em, the buttonin' wands. I got 'em ferm all over...Missouri, Tennessee, Oklahoma. Never found one ferm Arkansas. Ya know why? They din't wear many shoes in Arkansas. Couldn't 'o, er I would a found least ways one. Mebe, i's got sumpin' ta do with their feets..."

In Missouri, people are merciless with the jokes about Arkansasrins. Apparently, at the southern border of our fair state, there is an invisible line that divides the hominids from the direct descendent's of Neanderthal Man. At least, the way they tell it.

When he stuffed his hands deep into the pockets of his over-all's, the toothpick swung back around.

"Ya know this boy here, don't know his mathematician. Yep, I've a taught 'im what a could. He din't even know... hey, ya know what half `o 12 is?"

I knew there had to be a catch, so far he had carefully led us in one direction and then bushwhacked from the rear on every subject.

"Why don't you tell me. Better yet, show me."
"Gots a pen n paper?" He drew out the number 12 in Roman numerals (xii), then asked me what that was. Then he drew a line through it ( xii ). "Nahow, wha's that?".

What a character.
7/29/2005 3:0 AM
word count 719