I’m at a “farmer’s market” right now and not one of these hippies is a farmer.
Not seein’ any Amish, either.
What the hell gives?
I’ve been loitering at this community garden and farmer’s market pretending to look for non-GMO honeycomb for seven hours and I have yet to encounter a single honest-to-goodness farmer. Met a helluva lot of home brewers, theater techs, and cycling enthusiasts, but not a solitary landholding cob can be found. I ask once more because I have learned in over thirty years of punditry that repetition is an adequate substitute for original thought: What in the hell gives? Where are the damn farmers?
In the Crimshaw family, we have made it a point over the course of several generations to buy our meat and potatoes from thick and balding men with hairy forearms and close-set eyes. From my current vantage point hidden deep inside of a compost heap, I see no such friendly faces. Instead, I am surrounded by stringy bearded men with calf tattoos and some chicks my dad would think are dudes but in a sexy way. Am I expected to consume the produce these apparent agnostics have wheeled in on their fixed gears? As a man responsible for the nutrition of three teens and one foxy knockout named Gailene, that would be rash and foolhardy.
I write this post from downtown Kansas City, Missouri — the heartland — where I am scheduled to give a keynote this evening for the Beef, Lamb, and Poultry Breeders of America, and even here, where we still have the courage to use a representation of an entire race of people as the mascot for our professional football team, the carrots are purple and I have been offered “chard” (a euphemism for the street drug crack cocaine) more times than I can count.
This cannot be. If the plains have been colonized by meat substitutes, there can be no hope for the American coasts, beset as they are on the west by the shoguns of Japan and on the east by the People’s Republic of Vermont. When Tulsa ceases to serve as a city on a hill for New York City and San Francisco, all will be lost.
I fear for The American Way. But mostly right now I fear that this chick with the yo-yo’s in her earholes isn’t gonna let me go home without the 12-ounce tub of teriyaki tofu. Look, I faked three phone calls from the proctologist but this broad is relentless. And do you want to know the sad part? Her dogged nature and wide frame would be assets behind the wheel of a John Deere rotavator, and that’s just true.
Tonight, as I address the meat men and shepherds of our nation, I will tell them what I tell you now: science has proven that healthy food, pregnant with that good stuff Monsanto keeps pumping out, increases libido and the tensile strength of the male boner. To maintain the energy and virility required to keep pace with China’s human output (possible only through doping and the creation of half-wit clones), we must return to the farm.
The next time I wander into a farmer’s market in the heartland, I hope to see hundreds of adult American men sampling the produce with dirt on their boots and a carnal sweat beading his upper lip. Then I will know that America has found its way — The American Way (a redundant sentence, but my editor Kyle and I had a falling-out over me goosing his wife after an excellent dig at club volleyball last week, so we’re all going to have to make sacrifices until he cools off).