Today I shucked and shucked, and then shucked some more. I like to say the word, "shucked." And then use it in it's various tenses. "Shucks, shucked, shucking, he did shuck." And finally, "Please, sir, shuck."

Why?

Because I am Rex Farmer, Rogue Farmer, for hire.

June 12, 1996
I went down to the old Gable place to see if they needed a rogue farmer. Because I fight crime out on the farming land while I farm and rogue at the same time, I figured they needed me.

I know the Gable's from way back. They have a daughter, Anna, a pretty girl. She's famous for acting in and directing cheap snuff films. My numerous attempts to put a stop to the snuff films have failed, as have numerous attempts to star in, write, produce and finance the films. It was only after I showed her my collection of tasseled and detasseled corn that I was successful in getting a minor role as "the waiter." In a scene that I remember fondly. I was asked if I could deliver Anna a glass of Rum. When I informed her that we were indeed out of rum, she became furious and slapped me, then ran into the arms of the film's lead. Later, they filmed themselves having sex while killing tiny rodents.

I digress. I knocked on the door. Anna's mother, Naan, who looks a lot like James Caan, came to the door (word is she hails from France). "Do you need any farming help," I asked. My speciality is Rogue Farming. "Heavens to Betsy," she replied. I knew who she was talking about: Her other daughter, Betsy. She was taken in a terrible farming accident. She was dropped off in Detroit, and we all assume that she's dead. Her last postcard reeked of death and alcohol. And her abortion probably didn't go as well as everyone had hoped, but that's the rumor in town. I don't follow rumors though.

"I know, it's a sad story," I consoled. My consolation is famous in these parts, as is my Rogue Farming. "I understand your husband (who hails from middle-Tennessee, word has it) needs some help tending to his fields. I'm just the person for that help."

"Oh Jesus," she replied. And I again knew who she was talking about: Jesus Dipasquali (word has it he hails from Mexico). Dipasquali taught me everything there is to know about Rogu Farming, including the part about cleaning hog pens, and sleeping with the bosses several daughters. Jesus was fired recently, but has been picked up as a Rogue telemarketer, using telephones to inquire if people have enough insurance, and if not, if they need more. Jesus taught me to follow my heart. And I carry that advice wherever I go, including the restroom.

"No, Jesus isn't here anymore," I again consoled. Perhaps I should become a Rogue Consolator. I could go for some bacon. And perhaps some eggs right about now. "Stop dawdling. Where is your husband?"

"Don't you remember?" she replied. She wasn't a rogue replyer, though. "He's dead."

Oh yes. He was, in fact, dead. She ran off muttering something about a bottle of whiskey and a shotgun. Suddenly, like a euphoria, or a really good day of farming, or even a great day of cutting out fish guts, I knew. I knew that his death had to do with her drinking of whiskey, and her shooting him with a really large shotgun.

Tomorrow I'll film my next scene in "Animal Lesbians" with Anna. After that, I'll sleep and perhaps consume dairy products. Perhaps they'll be warm, perhaps they won't be. Perhaps people with really large shotguns shouldn't go shooting at each other. Perhaps that's today's moral.