Hops and Harvesting Hatred
Why do bars sell food? I’ve never heard of any pornos that show dry humping.
Does Bud Light really count as beer? I swear there is a label on the side of the cases that reads, “Not For Individual Sale. Katrina Relief Only. Boil Before Drinking. Thanks. Signed, FEMA.”
What does it mean if you bring your own mixer to a bar? Alcoholic compulsive? One carb away from a bubble? Prone to hives? I like to think I’m setting a new trend.
If you can’t sing, and one of your favorite songs you like to butcher in your car comes on, what do you do? Especially if you don’t know all the words, and improvise like Mr. Short Term Memory on America’s Last Standing Idol? Head to the head, get the caddy’s opinion on the best stall, lock the door and belt it out – from both ends. Jumpin Jack Flash has never been such a gas, gas, gas.
Is there anything more phony than a reality show? If it ain’t being filmed with a lens longer than a chain gang’s collective length and being narrated by someone with a British accent, it’s fake. Who in the fuck is going to be themselves in front of a camera filming themselves acting like their self for someone other than theirselves, thereby opening themselves up to scrutiny and Interpol from various intergovernmental organizations.
I was forced to farm this weekend against me will. To be specific, my wife “asked” me to pick peas and corn out at my parent’s house. I have no fucking clue what Dylan was talking about when he similarly lamented the same situation, but I ain’t gonna work on my parent’s farm no more. I am averse to all types of manual labor, but pillaging nature’s bounty is possibly the most hated of all. Admittedly, my exposure to manual labor has been less than Mel Gibson’s to anger management and anti-Semite anonymous. Nonthemore, I still fucking hate it. I don’t know if it is the actual labor, or the being forced to do it. It may be the being forced to do under the veil of being “asked” to do it. If you’re married, you know what I’m saying. If you’re in a legally unbinding relationship, you can still run away from what I’m saying. If you’re single, you have no fucking clue. Stay clueless my friend.
I was exposed to something called purple hull peas. These things look just like pencil thin purple penises. They bend and curve like they have a case of purple Peyronie’s (Google at your own risk). They are planted in rows, and the peas hang from short bushes. They pick rather easily. Much like that perfectly hardened and shaped booger you find about once a day. You know, the type that cleans out your whole nostril, and requires a professional thumb wrestler’s strength to discard. You can pick them quick and easy. That ain’t really my bitch. What unjustly gesticulates my genitals is the extraction of the actual pea from the hull. It’s like pulling a pea sickle out of the cock of an unfrozen caveman lawyer. I mean, what the shuck? Are these goddamns things worth the purple staining of your fingers, and hours of labor merely to produce what canner’s refer to as “3 quart jars?” The last time I checked, we didn’t buy into the metric system. A “quart” is the product of a gastrointestinal event shared with the surrounding area by a droid. That’s why R2D2 tore out after he made all those weird beeping sounds. Droid “quarts” are very recognizable. They smell like burnt wires and burritos.
As if one form of bean wasn’t enough, I had to help pick crowder peas as well. No, these peas did not have a white, bisque-like consistency, and they aren’t filled with clams. They are smaller than purple hulls. They are, however, bumpy and curvy. Kinda like what you would think the penis of Hulk’s newborn baby would look like. You only pick them when the pod containing the pea turns white. So, it’s like you’re a white pea supremacist. You look past all the other colored peas, and only choose those that fit into your ideal of what a pea should look like. Brushing up on Mein Kampf prior to engaging in pea picking doesn’t hurt. Break out the geometrically straight symbols, brown attire and desire to throw your arm straight out, and let’s pick us some muthafuckin’ peas!
My dad also planted corn. I’m not talking about the type of corn that travels in perfectly proportioned bags, and comes to fruition whenever the appropriate amount of microwavable time has elapsed. I’m talking about corn on the stalk, with tassels and in husks. According to my source and the woman who made me pick it, you can tell when corn is done by both feeling it and looking at the color of its tassel. The tassel looks like that thing coming off of the square you adorned yourself after high school when you did something enough to stop doing it. When it comes to corn, if the tassel is brown and dry, you’ve got yourself some maize. Feeling corn up also seems to be important. Those versed in vegetable feelin’ can apparently surmise the due dates of organic materials by veggie-red-touching them. My wife was vegetably sodomizin’ everything before it was snapped from its stock. It was like cornography. I wasn’t sure if I was aroused, or just really corny. It was cornfusing to say the least.
