If you spend all your days hunched over picking tea, you’re probably Chai knees.
agriculture
Invest in puns, corny puns! The stalk mock-it has never been higher.
My friend took joint ownership in a grow-op, out in the Hempsteads. The place had gone to weed and needed grass, but after applying some THC–tender hearted care–it looked spliffy in no time.
The farmer got arrested during the drought. He couldn’t make bale.
Farming advice: be a fallower, not a weeder.
Anyone who grows a large yam-type vegetable is in for a rutabega-ning.
Farmers should plough the field before watering crops: aka rows before hose.
Don’t criticize me when I talk about breeding fruit. I’m just speaking fig iteratively.
When I arrived home from farming the fields, my wife suggested I be seeded. She gave me a baleful look. There was bad news. It appears someone stole harvest. “Somebody dung us wrong, in an awful manure,” she said. I was upset, and wanted to cull the crops, so they could catch the fallow. “I till you, he must sty!” Such events make farmers almanac. Indeed, it seems like part of a larger plot, made my mind acre just threshing out the possibilities. When I finish with him, he won’t be live, stocking at all.
Weeding is a high-growth industry, but it started as a grasp roots movement. It took a hunch and a good amount of pluck, but now it has people all over the earth on their knees – and they really dig it.