109 lines
7.0 KiB
Plaintext
109 lines
7.0 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #590
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "Farmer Floyd"
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
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888 888 888 888 888 " by Phairgirl
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 4/21/99
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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Hello. My name is Floyd Rodgers, but my friends call me Farmer
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Floyd. It's incredible how one little cornfield can provide food that
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people all over the world eat. It's quite amazing, really. But you have
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to remember that there are millions of these tiny fields all across our
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great country. I love knowing that I feed the nation. Our nation exports
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it, too. So thousands of little Japanese kids could be eating my corn
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right at this very moment. Thousands. It's hard to fathom, but so is the
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concept of infinity. Numbers that go on forever and ever. I really don't
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think about it every single day, but then again nobody really does. What
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I think about everyday is corn, because I feed the world.
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Everyone in India would be dead if it weren't for my corn. Of
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course, the ladies in India have those red dots on their foreheads. I have
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a mole on my forehead but that's not the same thing, now is it. I once
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went to have that very mole removed but one look at that dry ice made me
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hightail it out of there. Dry ice gives me the heebie-jeebies. But who's
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to say what exactly is a heebie-jeebie? I often picture them as little
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rascals living under my bed, waiting for me to leave so they can eat my
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corn, the very same corn that someone in Pakistan might be eating right
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now. I don't know anyone personally who lives in Pakistan, but maybe
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that's because I dropped out of school in the fifth grade. I had better
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things to do -- plant corn.
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I'm naturally smart, I suppose, otherwise I wouldn't be growing the
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corn eaten worldwide. I once sold corn to some Columbians. Now aren't
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Columbians just a bit odd? They're known for two things: coffee and
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cocaine. Now that's an interesting combination, coffee and cocaine. I
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suppose if you were on coffee and cocaine you'd look like my underwear on
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the spin cycle: dizzy, confused, and abnormally soapy. Or maybe not --
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I've never actually seen anyone on coffee and cocaine. Maybe the
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combination would make them spontaneously combust. Scientists say that
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people just can't spontaneously combust, but I'll be they haven't tried
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using coffee and cocaine. But what if they _had_ tried that particular
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combination? I guess that means haven't tried coffee, cocaine, _and_ my
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corn. We all know how spectacular my corn is.
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What if my corn is the key to curing cancer? I've eaten it my whole
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life and I don't have cancer, now do I. My neighbor got cancer, though.
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Maybe that's because he only grew beets. Beets are a most disgusting
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vegetable, wouldn't you say? They only way they're worth eating is if
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they're pickled. I love a good pickled beet once in a while. The problem
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with pickled beets is if you drop one on your best overalls. The stains
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never come out. That's why I usually stick to corn -- no stains. I once
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had Thanksgiving over here and invited my whole family, but the pickled
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beets stained my new tablecloth. I had to take it to the dry cleaners in
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town. I don't understand that concept either -- dry cleaning. Whenever I
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clean I use Pine Sol, and that stuff is far from dry. It smells like a
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pine forest all jammed in to one little bottle. Not that it's a bad thing,
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but they could have used a different scent. A hint of jasmine, some
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orchids maybe. They could get really snazzy and add some Chanel No. 5,
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but I guess they figured that might drive the cost up a hair.
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Sadly, my hair is receding. I don't think I'll go all the way bald,
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but I guess I have to live with whatever's in my genes. My favorite jeans
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are Wranglers. They have that loose feel. You know, the only jeans they
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sell in town are those fancey old Guess? jeans. I don't get that either.
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My guess is that they are jeans. End of the guessing. Not a very exciting
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game, don't you think? I prefer badminto or croquet. Sometimes I let down
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my hairs and play a little euchre, pinochle, or canasta. Canasta takes two
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decks of cards, though, and that's hard to come by when you live on a
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farm. It's also hard to come by another player, much less the minimum four
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needed for euchre. It took me six years to master euchre. It's a game of
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skill, chance, and how good your partner is. My best partner in euchre was
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my pig Francis. We beat the horses, the reigning champions. Get it?
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Reigning champions? I just love puns, but I'm usually not so clever as to
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think them up all by myself. That's where Francis comes in Francis is the
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funniest pig in the world. He once told me a joke about the sheep. I
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laughed so hard I almost peed my pants. That would be a travesty, now
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wouldn't it. I would have to do an entire load of wash, and all that does
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is take away from my plowing time. You need to plow even rows between your
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corn or you won't grow enough to feed the world like I do.
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I recently shipped a huge bundle of corn to the Commonwealth of
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Independent States. They used to be the Soviet Union, you know. The first
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time I saw the words "Soviet Union" I thought it said Soviet _Onion_. I
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guess I just needed new glasses. Glasses aren't near as comfortable as
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contact lenses, though they are easier to clean. I have a friend who
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ripped his contact lens trying to clean it. Now there's a case of being
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damned if you do, damned if you don't. Contact lenses are extremely
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expensive to replace, too. I don't know many farmers who make that type
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of money. Sure, shipping corn all over the world may _seem_ like a huge
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money-making occupation, but things aren't always what they seem. It's
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kind of like those 3D pictures they got in the mall. At first, they're a
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bunch of squiggly lines, but after a while, woo doggie! It's an incredible
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art masterpiece. You don't even need to use those blue and red glasses,
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either. I wonder if they make blue and red contact lenses. Now that would
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be a treat. The best treat, though, is growing corn.
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I think I would die if I couldn't grow corn anymore. Dying is a
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scary thing -- I'm not sure if I'm going to heaven or hell. It depends on
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what constitutes being bad, I suppose. If picking your nose is bad, I'm
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going to hell, but since God likes animals, I'm in the clear. If running
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a man over with a chipper shredder is bad, I'm going to hell. It was a
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lawyer though, so I'm pretty sure I'm safe. If raising corn is bad, I'm
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going to hell, and I'll love it there, too.
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #590 - WRITTEN BY: PHAIRGIRL - 4/21/99 ]
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