I freely admit that bothering farm animals isn’t an American invention. After all, they’ve been poking and prodding and teasing bulls in Barcelona since the Romans owned the place. People have devised competitions to herd sheep and see how much milk they can get out of cows since time immemorial. But let’s face it, riding a bull just seems like an American thing to do.
I’m not sure of the fundamental utility of these rototillers. It looks like it would be hard to make the turn at the bottom of the pea patch and head back the other way. Boys will be boys, however. Thank goodness for that. If boys wouldn’t be boys, this blog would be a cold and lonely place. We need stalwart dudes like these fellers to keep the lights on and the Pulitzers rolling in.
Farmers are a fickle lot. A while back I was driving to visit a friend who lived in the middle of East nowhere, and I saw a farmer standing out in the middle of a field. This usually isn’t something that would capture my attention, but it was getting late and he just seemed to be milling around in the middle of the field. I didn’t know what I make of it at first, so I pulled over to see if he was alright.
Way out in East there was this fella — fella I wanna tell ya about. Fella by the name of Scythe Guy. At least that was the handle his loving parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. Scythe Guy, he called himself the Scythe Guy. Now, Scythe Guy — that’s a name no one would self-apply where I come from. But then there was a lot about the Scythe Guy that didn’t make a whole lot of sense. And a lot about where he lived, likewise.