Column:

The Aggies have set me straight

By Dan Friesen

Published March 6, 2007

Wow! Did I have a rude awakening this week or what? For the last four semesters or so, I've just kept my bigoted eyes shut and spouted unintelligent, ill-informed opinions to the masses. And I would have been happy to go on doing so if it weren't for those meddling agriculture kids.

Don't get me wrong, I owe them a debt of gratitude. They have opened my eyes to the truth about America, this university and myself.

You see, until this last week, I had always thought that the whole "agriculture produces food" thing was just a joke. I saw the "No Farmers, No Food" bumper stickers, but just assumed that it was a reference to a Weird Al Yankovic version of that Bob Marley song.

I thought that the "agriculture producing food" thing was a horrible stereotype frowned upon by educated persons in the same vein as "black people have darker skin" or "homosexuals are attracted to people of their own gender." I now see the error in my beliefs and couldn't be sorrier for not realizing that agriculture's food production is no joke.

Secondly, at the insistence of my "country" friends Bo and Luke Jim-Jam, I tried bathtub gin. I must say, the difference between it and Bombay Sapphire is about the same as the difference between Bacardi and Captain Morgan. I was convinced that because people of a low socioeconomic bracket drank bathtub gin, it must not taste good. I was wrong to judge, and I couldn't be sorrier.

Further, I fear I might have made a "hasty generalization" regarding rusty farm equipment. Just like I assume all crows are black because every one I've see has been, I assumed that all farm equipment is rusty because every piece I'd seen was. I guess I need a wider sample than the props from "Hee Haw," my only real exposure to "country living." I committed a classic fallacy, and for that I couldn't be sorrier.

Then there's the matter of research. I guess I didn't pay too much attention in my Research Methods class, but my research regimen has always been, to my estimation, rigorous and thorough. First, about five hours after my column is due, I look up some porn and pound one out. Then, I spend about 10 minutes basking in shame, usually looking at my blog stats or reading the work of a liberal smear-merchant at commondreams.org to bring me back to reality. After that, I watch some "Celebreality" reruns on VH1, boozing pretty well while I half-assedly write the words you eventually read.

Interviews? Fact checking? I've never heard of someone doing such things. I conferred with my editor, and he informed me there are, in fact, many journalists whose research methods differ from my own. Apparently, what I do doesn't technically count as research. This one is totally my bad. I couldn't be sorrier about my lack of professionalism.

It's taken me this episode to realize that I have a problem. For the last few years, I have been firmly in the grips of a killer, terrible disease. It makes me do things such as commit fallacies and judge things prematurely that I shouldn't. I'm referring, of course, to alcoholism. Perhaps I should have seen it as a wake-up call when Paramonga grew up and went back to his family, but I couldn't see through the haze of addiction. It took the noble agrarians turning on me to make me realize how terribly out of control I have become.

I realize that this isn't the end. In the heroic footsteps of brave people such as Britney Spears, Lindsay Lohan and Andy Dick who have come before me, I am off to rehab.

But first, one last bender with the Jim-Jam brothers.