Bad Farm Fiction
After he’d hit the rooster’s snooze button (the little nubbin under its chin) for the third time, Farmer Brown rolled out of bed bright and early at 2AM. He picked up his pitchfork and stuck a grass seed between his teeth.
What a day to be a farmer!
As he left the house, he used the pitchfork to pick up the seven dead varmints the barn cat had lined up on his doorstep, ranging in size from an ant to a small torpedo — or it might have been an aardvark. It was hard to tell, because it was still dark outside. Farmer Brown hated working the night shift.
Out in the fields, the cows were eating the corn and trying to jump over the moon, as usual. The hornery critters just could not grasp the concept of gravity. He fired his six-shooter into the air seven times to scare off the rustlers who were lurking in the crops, plotting to steal his cows. After the rustlers had skedaddled, Farmer Brown pulled the milking stool from a tree, and he lassoed each of the cows, groping their milk bags until they gave up their liquid gold (milk) while letting out big moos.
He poured the milk into the butter churns that the milkmaid used to make cheese. Hot chocolate too, though the Farmers’ Secrecy Act prevents me from explaining to you how that is done.
Now, it was time to plow the crops. Farmer Brown grabbed Mosley the horse where he was milling around the driveway munching gravel. He brushed Mosley’s fetlock out of his eyes then hitched him to the tractor. He had to pull on the rip-cord three times before the tractor’s engine roared to life. Then he hopped on the tractor, shook the reins, and said, “Giddy-Up!” and Mosley started pulling.
Farmer Brown needed to get his crop dusting done early, because his daughter had entered Mosley in the Kentucky Derby, and she had to ride him out of the farm by noon if she was going to get to the race on time. If Mosley won, he’d be the first black-and-white horse in history to win the Derby. As he plowed the fields, Farmer Brown wondered why most racehorses were brown. What a boring color for a horse. Couldn’t the horse breeders do something about that? Maybe he would suggest it, the next time he went into town to visit the Chamber of Commerce.
As he harvested the corn and the wheat and the buckwheat and the sorghum (and the rice also), Farmer Brown thought about all the Honey Nut Cheerios that were going to be made from his crops, and he felt proud.
“E-I-E-I-O!” he screamed.
The pigs, wallowing in their slops, perked up their ears and oinked, then went back to wallowing, because that’s what pigs in those days did.
The ducks, those marvelous beasts of burden, were dilly-dallying and rubbernecking on the duck pond while the goats bleated and climbed the silo next to the haystack, where Mrs. Brown kept her sewing needles.
A vision of bucolic bliss.
City folk have no idea, thought Farmer Brown as he harvested from the donkey whatever it is that donkeys produce (probably fur).
“Hee-haw!” said the donkey.
“E-I-E-I-E-I-O,” sang Farmer Brown, thinking that whoever wrote that polka song sure got away with a lot by simply adding an E-I to the Farmer Song, and he wondered if Old MacDonald was collecting royalties.
His chores done, Farmer Brown went back to the house. He’d have to remember to pour fresh gravy on the scarecrow before bed-time so it would keep the owls off his lawn. They were always trying to eat Mrs. Brown’s azaleas.
What a time to be a farmer!