You want me to thank a farmer? You will never be a real farmer. You have no discipline, you have no calluses, you are a crude mockery of farming's perfection, the men who woke up at 4AM, their hands and bodies fortified from years of hard physical labor. You sit there in your tractor, your GPS-guided equipment doing the work for you, thinking that you’re part of the farming legacy. But you’re nothing more than a city slicker with some overalls.
Behind your back your friends and family mock you, embarrassed every time you put up "thank a farmer" memes on your Facebook profile. Real farmers plowed their fields with nothing but a horse and sweat, fighting against the land with their very lives at stake. They didn’t rely on “apps” or “weather forecasts”—they felt the earth beneath their feet and knew when the rain would come, not because of some satellite but because of years of experience and a connection to the soil. You sit behind the wheel of your $200,000 John Deere and pretend you’re one of them, but you’re just playing dress-up.
Real farmers didn’t have “government subsidies” to bail them out when times got tough. They grew their crops with nothing but sheer will and a deep understanding of the seasons, weathering droughts, floods, and soil without begging for handouts. But you? You cry over a bad season because your machine broke down, or your harvest didn’t meet the “market standard” dictated by a corporate boardroom in New York. You have no idea what it’s like to work the land from sunup to sundown, to feed a family with nothing but what the earth provided, to face death and disease in both livestock and soil without a high-tech solution.
No amount of Instagram photos with your "heritage breed" pigs and "organic" corn is going to change that. You might grow some food for the masses, but you’re not part of the blood, sweat, and tears that built this nation’s farming legacy. You're a sad, pale imitation of the men who farmed before you. You will never understand what it truly means to farm. After you're dead and buried, when your body is discovered hundreds of years from now, they will find the frail, weak carcass of someone who is unmistakably an urbanite.
Behind your back your friends and family mock you, embarrassed every time you put up "thank a farmer" memes on your Facebook profile. Real farmers plowed their fields with nothing but a horse and sweat, fighting against the land with their very lives at stake. They didn’t rely on “apps” or “weather forecasts”—they felt the earth beneath their feet and knew when the rain would come, not because of some satellite but because of years of experience and a connection to the soil. You sit behind the wheel of your $200,000 John Deere and pretend you’re one of them, but you’re just playing dress-up.
Real farmers didn’t have “government subsidies” to bail them out when times got tough. They grew their crops with nothing but sheer will and a deep understanding of the seasons, weathering droughts, floods, and soil without begging for handouts. But you? You cry over a bad season because your machine broke down, or your harvest didn’t meet the “market standard” dictated by a corporate boardroom in New York. You have no idea what it’s like to work the land from sunup to sundown, to feed a family with nothing but what the earth provided, to face death and disease in both livestock and soil without a high-tech solution.
No amount of Instagram photos with your "heritage breed" pigs and "organic" corn is going to change that. You might grow some food for the masses, but you’re not part of the blood, sweat, and tears that built this nation’s farming legacy. You're a sad, pale imitation of the men who farmed before you. You will never understand what it truly means to farm. After you're dead and buried, when your body is discovered hundreds of years from now, they will find the frail, weak carcass of someone who is unmistakably an urbanite.
