Length And Satisfaction

Word count in a blog post of my sort is perplexing. I tend to write to completion, FTW. After spending a good chunk of time (10 minutes) reading others blogs this morning (2pm) I realized what an ass beating it is to keep caring past about 300 words. The author better have some profound doo doo to say to keep my interest. Being the introspective, personalize everything because I’m an only child with a confusing cocktail of low self esteem and self importance, guy that I am, I decided I better be aware of length.

I’m tempted to stop this post right there for emphasis.

Nope.

It comes down to goals for your blog. I’ve already chosen the hardest blog type to pique interest, much less make a dime. According to my research, I’d have a higher shot at success doing a “How To” blog on urinating in Spanx, than doing a humor/personal life blog.

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

Let it go, gurl! Let it go!

My goals are attention and vindication through articulation via the written word . Not unlike the 18 year old who moves to California to achieve her low budget porn dreams, I crave life validation, if you happen to have your pants around your ankles while reading this, all the better. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope this parlays into a regular gig writing for a big time publication such as Field & Stream or Good Housekeeping. I have dreams. I’m also a realist. The odds of anything, beyond my nervous flatulence questions addressed to ‘Dear Abby’, getting published are about the same as Rick from ‘The Walking Dead’ nailing a Southern accent.
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I’m learning on the fly here. Getting to know what people want to read, and how long they’ll hang around without prison shanking their dog, is a recipe I’m yet to master. The other worry is selling out…..I’m over 300 words, nobodies here. One time, I got my junk stuck in a vacuum cleaner. And still, no one knows.

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I Worked On A Peanut & Cotton Farm For Two Weeks

Working on the farm, for the first time since I was eighteen, was a success. I didn’t die. The hours are long and the pay is on par with wages of non pirates in Somalia. But I do it for the experience and the bitches.

Day one, I¬†sprayed herbicide all over the place. The spray rig drives itself via GPS and some sort of wizardry I’ve narrowed down to either magic beans or prayer circles. Farming has become a highly technological field and in the process has stopped using slave labor. Who knew?

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Starfleet has acquired John Deere in what’s being called a “real coup” for the intergalactic upstart.

The amount of skill required to do farm work would shock the average city dweller. Most urban jobs are one or two skill intensive. Sales? Talk people into buying burden. Computer Tech? Fix glitches caused by people who spit in the face of NSFW. Chef? Make other peoples recipes and feel like a rebel when you go heavy on the cumin. Of course I’ve downplayed the work of others to boost my case for farmers.

Farmers fix every goddamn thing because all of it will break and break hard. Weld it, nail, glue it, duct tape it, whatever it takes to keep moving. Driving a tractor for 12 hours straight is considered downtime. Selling product to an obscure buyer who will back out at the last minute or renege on a deal in an effort to get the crop at a lower price is commonplace. Weather of all kinds can erase the past weeks work in a matter of hours. Weather will make or break you. Too much rain, you’re screwed. Too little rain, you’re broke. The rain must be spread out and time perfectly.

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The first job I was stuck with, after they baited me in with the spray rig built on alien tech, was seedman. A great job if you can get it…. in the porn industry. As far as farming goes, it’s bitch work. The seedman will park his ignorant self in a pickup truck pulling a flatbed trailer loaded with five pallets of seed. The pallets have roughly forty eight bags of seed each. The bags weigh fifty pounds apiece. He will open up bags and align them along the edge of the trailer in eager anticipation of the tractor drivers need for fill up. He will then open up the planter boxes on the planting implement, swiftly fill each box while trying not to spill seed or fall to his knees while screaming to whatever deity he wronged to deserve this lot in life. The temperature hovers around a hundred. Air conditioning isn’t part of the benefits package either.


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The next step after shooing the driver away is to burn the empty bags of seed. Starting fires while sweating your tits off makes for pleasant feelings. After the bags have been burned and no pasture has caught fire (it happened twice), he’ll take a fifteen minute break, of which he’ll spend eight cussing and seven hoping the tractor blows up. The day will average out at 14 hours.
Here are a few pictures of my misery and it’s tools.

More, Keg, more. Don't shiest me, you lazy bastard.

More, Keg, more. Don’t shiest me, you lazy bastard.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he's an efficiency queer.

A standard planter runs between 8-12 boxes. The farmer custom made a 16 box because he’s an efficiency queer.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It's hell on s'more prep.

The wind picks up randomly which throws flaming bags screaming in whatever direction the wind is blowing. It’s hell on s’mores.

On occasion I’d have to go do a menial chore such as picking up parts from John Deere. I’d live for those. I’d get to drive a truck with A/C. I’d leg wrestle a high functioning leper to get the chance at cool air. I felt like the one person who got away from the villain in a horror movie. I’d laugh manically and think about all the things I’d do with my new lease on life. Such as learn how to use Twitter, pen a letter to Robin Thicke asking if he understood wrapping girls in plastic makes you sketchy but kudos on turning the final steps of a well thought out murder sexy, form a drug addiction and blame it on my time farming, play one on one with a little person, ride topless in the sidecar of a motorcycle driven by a burly biker and stare down EVERYONE, and lastly I’d sleep until my depression healed itself. The feeling was short lived. For prides sake, I’d return and submit myself to the torture normally reserved for ones with low education or questionable citizenship. I had to complete it. Quitting is for people with better things to do.

I stayed on as seedman for about ten days. The Farmer eventually moved me to tractor driver ,which was a horrible decision on his part. He immediately regretted his talent evaluation skills after watching me drive like Amy Winehouse on a sad day. I got scolded. It was uncomfortable. He apologized after he realized that the tractor was improperly weighted. I was embarrassed and pissed off. We moved passed it. I only worked a few days after that. Hell, maybe we didn’t move past it. I wasn’t fired but planting season was coming to an end, and my bitch skills weren’t needed.

I learned more about farming than I ever thought possible and I left with a gratitude for the amount of work it takes to bring raw materials to the masses. If you ever have the chance to work on a farm, do it. You”ll regret it and be glad about the experience all the same.

P.S. Side story
One day, we were blessed with a land owner spending the whole day watching and evaluating. He was in the medical field so his expertise on farming was astounding. I snapped a picture of him. I was about ninety percent sure he was gonna pass away right in front of my eyes. His breathing was labored, and bending over took the effort of running a 16K on horse tranquilizers while wearing a bee keepers outfit.

He ingested enough booze in is day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

He ingested enough booze in his day to keep Coors Brewing out of the red.

I feel a bit mean by posting that but I can’t stand meddling with an air of superiority. He was nice in his own way. He also thought he was greater than the people working. He shouldn’t have done that.

 

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Ruined People Go To Wal-Mart

We went to Wal-Mart. I’ve come to realize that that statement is the equivalent of “Nothing good happens after 2am.”. If you fancy the dregs of society showing off the latest in meth fashions, or people begging for a slow death while saving a dollar, than Wal-Mart is your place.

Walking through the parking lot, I saw a perfectly capable woman using one of those scooters meant for people who’s legs don’t effing work. She hit the gas, trying to beat me through the doors. I quickened my pace and cut her off, just to prove what moving your working legs can really do. I’m not saying I’m a hero but I do try to make a difference in the community.

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“We need¬†Gatorade, Debbie. I plan on getting up later.”

The first section we went to was produce. I watched a 19 year old, very tall for his race Asian boy pick his nose and directly proceed to manhandle the tomatoes. It was all one fluid motion. Booger to tomato ninja. I immediately looked at Cris, pointed at Yao Ming and explained to her his sin. After that, I feared every non peeling item. I didn’t want to be there anymore.

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While loitering around the dairy section, pretending to check expiration dates on milk, a family of three strolled by. I noticed the mom first. Probably no more than 22, but she could have passed for 47. Her makeup was smeared in a way that only heroin can provide. She seemed to use eye liner as an homage to Pollack. The pail, clammy skin made me feel more black than listening to Jesse Jackson while watching Tyler Perry in ‘Madea Kills A Honkey’. The girls husband was rather rotund and could have easily played in ‘The Walking Dead’; no direction needed. The sad part was the screaming toddler in the cart. The boys face was completely covered in some sort of mess that could have been chocolate or dirt. I don’t know. Me being the piece of shit that I am, I ran to the cheese, where Cris was actually trying to accomplish something, and told her she needed to go look. These winners were hauling ass however, she never caught up.

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To round out my trip down The Skid Row of Savings, I went to the restroom. As soon as I made the right into the potty, a woman was staring at me. Not an employee mind you. I knew I was in the right place because I saw urinals, and unless the women’s rights movements has gone too far, it was not a ladies room. The woman was covered in bad tattoos and looked like she smelled of spoiled cocoa butter. I give her props though. Her reason for being in there was to help her man adjust his drawers. I honestly have not the foggiest idea what they were doing. He had his pants about halfway down the crack of his ass, as she stood behind him pulling at something. I watched while I relieved myself. They occasionally looked up at me so I figured we were even. I thought that maybe she was helping him with his colostomy bag. My mind was on overdrive as I also thought they may be stuffing balloons filled with angel dust up his anus. I looked him straight in the eye when I walked out to try to get a read on his plight. He just gave me that “What can you do, life sucks?” look.

I hope this brings you some sort of peace about where you are in your life.

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