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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #590
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888                    "Farmer Floyd"
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8
    888     888 888      888 888    "                by Phairgirl
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o               4/21/99
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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        Hello.  My name is Floyd Rodgers, but my friends call me Farmer
 Floyd.  It's incredible how one little cornfield can provide food that
 people all over the world eat.  It's quite amazing, really.  But you have
 to remember that there are millions of these tiny fields all across our
 great country.  I love knowing that I feed the nation.  Our nation exports
 it, too.  So thousands of little Japanese kids could be eating my corn
 right at this very moment.  Thousands.  It's hard to fathom, but so is the
 concept of infinity.  Numbers that go on forever and ever.  I really don't
 think about it every single day, but then again nobody really does.  What
 I think about everyday is corn, because I feed the world.

        Everyone in India would be dead if it weren't for my corn.  Of
 course, the ladies in India have those red dots on their foreheads.  I have
 a mole on my forehead but that's not the same thing, now is it.  I once
 went to have that very mole removed but one look at that dry ice made me
 hightail it out of there.  Dry ice gives me the heebie-jeebies.  But who's
 to say what exactly is a heebie-jeebie?  I often picture them as little
 rascals living under my bed, waiting for me to leave so they can eat my
 corn, the very same corn that someone in Pakistan might be eating right
 now.  I don't know anyone personally who lives in Pakistan, but maybe
 that's because I dropped out of school in the fifth grade.  I had better
 things to do -- plant corn.

        I'm naturally smart, I suppose, otherwise I wouldn't be growing the
 corn eaten worldwide.  I once sold corn to some Columbians.  Now aren't
 Columbians just a bit odd?  They're known for two things: coffee and
 cocaine.  Now that's an interesting combination, coffee and cocaine.  I
 suppose if you were on coffee and cocaine you'd look like my underwear on
 the spin cycle: dizzy, confused, and abnormally soapy.  Or maybe not --
 I've never actually seen anyone on coffee and cocaine.  Maybe the
 combination would make them spontaneously combust.  Scientists say that
 people just can't spontaneously combust, but I'll be they haven't tried
 using coffee and cocaine.  But what if they _had_ tried that particular
 combination?  I guess that means haven't tried coffee, cocaine, _and_ my
 corn.   We all know how spectacular my corn is.

        What if my corn is the key to curing cancer?  I've eaten it my whole
 life and I don't have cancer, now do I.  My neighbor got cancer, though.
 Maybe that's because he only grew beets.  Beets are a most disgusting
 vegetable, wouldn't you say?  They only way they're worth eating is if
 they're pickled.  I love a good pickled beet once in a while.  The problem
 with pickled beets is if you drop one on your best overalls.  The stains
 never come out.  That's why I usually stick to corn -- no stains.  I once
 had Thanksgiving over here and invited my whole family, but the pickled
 beets stained my new tablecloth.  I had to take it to the dry cleaners in
 town.  I don't understand that concept either -- dry cleaning.  Whenever I
 clean I use Pine Sol, and that stuff is far from dry.  It smells like a
 pine forest all jammed in to one little bottle.  Not that it's a bad thing,
 but they could have used a different scent.  A hint of jasmine, some
 orchids maybe.  They could get really snazzy and add some Chanel No.  5,
 but I guess they figured that might drive the cost up a hair.

        Sadly, my hair is receding.  I don't think I'll go all the way bald,
 but I guess I have to live with whatever's in my genes.  My favorite jeans
 are Wranglers.  They have that loose feel.  You know, the only jeans they
 sell in town are those fancey old Guess?  jeans.  I don't get that either.
 My guess is that they are jeans.  End of the guessing.  Not a very exciting
 game, don't you think?  I prefer badminto or croquet.  Sometimes I let down
 my hairs and play a little euchre, pinochle, or canasta.  Canasta takes two
 decks of cards, though, and that's hard to come by when you live on a
 farm.  It's also hard to come by another player, much less the minimum four
 needed for euchre.  It took me six years to master euchre.  It's a game of
 skill, chance, and how good your partner is.  My best partner in euchre was
 my pig Francis.  We beat the horses, the reigning champions.  Get it?
 Reigning champions?  I just love puns, but I'm usually not so clever as to
 think them up all by myself.  That's where Francis comes in Francis is the
 funniest pig in the world.  He once told me a joke about the sheep.  I
 laughed so hard I almost peed my pants.  That would be a travesty, now
 wouldn't it.  I would have to do an entire load of wash, and all that does
 is take away from my plowing time.  You need to plow even rows between your
 corn or you won't grow enough to feed the world like I do.

        I recently shipped a huge bundle of corn to the Commonwealth of
 Independent States.  They used to be the Soviet Union, you know.  The first
 time I saw the words "Soviet Union" I thought it said Soviet _Onion_.  I
 guess I just needed new glasses.  Glasses aren't near as comfortable as
 contact lenses, though they are easier to clean.  I have a friend who
 ripped his contact lens trying to clean it.  Now there's a case of being
 damned if you do, damned if you don't.  Contact lenses are extremely
 expensive to replace, too.  I don't know many farmers who make that type
 of money.  Sure, shipping corn all over the world may _seem_ like a huge
 money-making occupation, but things aren't always what they seem.  It's
 kind of like those 3D pictures they got in the mall.  At first, they're a
 bunch of squiggly lines, but after a while, woo doggie!  It's an incredible
 art masterpiece.  You don't even need to use those blue and red glasses,
 either.  I wonder if they make blue and red contact lenses.  Now that would
 be a treat.  The best treat, though, is growing corn.

        I think I would die if I couldn't grow corn anymore.  Dying is a
 scary thing -- I'm not sure if I'm going to heaven or hell.  It depends on
 what constitutes being bad, I suppose.  If picking your nose is bad, I'm
 going to hell, but since God likes animals, I'm in the clear.  If running
 a man over with a chipper shredder is bad, I'm going to hell.  It was a
 lawyer though, so I'm pretty sure I'm safe.  If raising corn is bad, I'm
 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 ]
