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I've come to the conclusion that roosters are just morning DJs for the farm. I mean, have you ever heard a rooster crow? It's like they took a DJ from a nightclub and put him on a farm. "Alright, ladies and gentlemen, get ready to rise and shine! We've got a special remix of 'Cock-a-doodle-doo' just for you!" But here's the thing: roosters don't have a snooze button. Once that rooster starts, there's no going back to sleep. It's like they have a personal vendetta against anyone who wants a few extra minutes of shut-eye. I imagine roosters as the farm's alarm system, and they take their job very seriously.
I'm not a morning person, and the rooster's wake-up call feels like a personal attack. I need an alarm that gently wakes me up with a soothing voice, not a feathery DJ blasting beats at the crack of dawn. Maybe I should start a petition for farm-friendly wake-up calls. "Dear Roosters, can we negotiate a later wake-up time? Sincerely, Sleep-Deprived City Slicker.
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You ever notice how people romanticize the idea of being a farmer? Like, "Oh, I wish I could live on a farm and grow my own food!" Yeah, right! Have you ever played Farmville? That's the closest most of us get to farming. I planted some virtual corn once; does that count as a green thumb? I tried gardening once, thinking I'd embrace my inner farmer. You know what I grew? Weeds. I'm pretty sure my garden is a secret meeting place for all the neighborhood weeds. They probably have a little weed clubhouse in the corner, laughing at my attempts to grow tomatoes. I bet they call me "The Clueless Cultivator."
I can't imagine being a real farmer. I'd be the guy out there trying to negotiate with the chickens. "Listen, ladies, I'll give you extra corn if you lay double the eggs. It's a win-win!" Farm life sounds tough. I can barely keep a houseplant alive; imagine me with a whole crop. The vegetables would stage a revolt.
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You ever wonder about scarecrows? I mean, what's their deal? They're just standing there, wearing old clothes, with a hat and a face drawn on a sack. Talk about a fashion disaster. If I dressed like that in the city, people would think I escaped from a time-traveling carnival. And what's their job, really? Scarecrows are supposed to scare away birds, right? But birds are not dumb. They see a scarecrow and think, "Oh, that's just Larry. He's been here for years, and he never does anything." Birds probably have scarecrow recognition courses in bird school, where they learn to ignore the motionless human-shaped figure in the field.
I feel bad for scarecrows. They're like the unsung heroes of the farm, standing there in the sun and rain, doing absolutely nothing. It's like having a security guard who falls asleep on the job every day. "Yeah, I'm here to protect the crops, but if a crow wants to snack, who am I to stop him?
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I recently visited a friend who lives on a farm. I'm a city person, born and raised. The closest I get to nature is when I accidentally step on a slug on the sidewalk. So, I'm at my friend's farm, and they're like, "Want to help with the harvest?" I'm thinking, "Sure, I've mastered the art of picking fruit at the grocery store. How different can it be?" Turns out, very different. I'm standing there in the middle of a field, holding a pitchfork, and I have no idea what I'm doing. My friend says, "Just gather the hay." I'm like, "Great, where's the 'Hay Gathering for Dummies' manual?" I swear, the hay was laughing at me.
City folks and country folks are like aliens to each other. Farmers look at me like, "What planet did you just beam down from, and why are you wearing those shiny shoes in the mud?" Meanwhile, I'm looking at them like, "Do you guys have Wi-Fi out here?" It's a clash of civilizations, the city slicker and the down-to-earth farmer trying to find common ground. Spoiler alert: it's not easy.
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