Hey-check out the breast exam on channel 9!

Here it is, the first post in what is sure to be the greatest blog about dirt farming this world has ever seen. You can say you were there at the beginning along the other 2.5 people that are likely to encounter my little neck of cyberspace. Rest assured I will remember the little people along my path to the top.

Sooo, tonight I am watching tv as my lazy ass tends to be doing most Sunday nights, and I realized one of the defining moments in my life was the day I saw the movie Office Space. Sad right? Maybe, but that movie has single handily scared me for life from working anywhere near a cubicle, a tie, tps reports, or any boss that could possibly resemble Lumberg. Can't do it. I would literally rather be a crack dealer than sit in a nondescript cubicle, in a nondescript building, surrounded by one word motivational prints, water cooler chat over the latest sitcom, the sputtering light of one bulbed halogens, the never ending quest for the perfect game of hearts, and various other accouterments of office life. I have friends that live that life and surprisingly enough they tend to drink too much and bitch constantly about the never ending stress headache that is an office job. Thus, I farm the dirt.

I am the guy that takes care of the athletic fields you see on tv for pro teams, college, etc... I don't make much money, and I have a bad shoulder from pounding on clay too often, but other than that I couldn't be happier. Its just me, the open sky, the green grass, and the rich earth I cultivate to form as near to a perfect playing surface as possible. There are no motivational prints on the wall urging me to strive for my best-instead there is a coach and a boss to weave a web of profanities to motivate me. (Its amazing how much more effective an f bomb is in getting you to do your best.) There are no ties either...I literally wear shorts to work about 340 days a year and most of those have holes in them.

The field is like my fortress of solitude-minus all the weird talking crystal things with my parents inside. (if you don't get that go watch Superman and possibly move out of that cave you have been living in) I strap on my Ipod, get a pinch of Copenhagen, and grab my rake. The sun climbs overhead, the world wipes the sleep from its eyes and buzzes to and fro in a hummingbird frenzy en route to their various cubicles. All the while it is me and the field-a symbiotic relationship of textbook definition. I mold the dirt and form it to its purpose. The dirt gives me solace and a place to be with my thoughts, unfettered by dumbing entrapments of corporate life.
Together we are perfect.

So all hail Mike Judge and the art that is Office Space. It saved my life and might save yours. Hell, if you are lucky it might even give you the oohh face.