The State of Modern Farming: An Exercise in Insanity and Sleep Deprivation

As anyone even remotely adjacent to the agriculture industry can attest, the current state of farming is, to put it delicately, an absolute shitshow. A veritable three-ring circus of chaos, despair, and praying that this year's harvest doesn't spontaneously combust for no adequately explained reason.

Aside: Speaking of combustion, does anyone else suffer from reoccurring night terrors about waking up to their entire crop yield transformed into an unholy inferno? Or is that just an irrational fear that plagues the subconscious because Interstellar was watched one too many times? Either way, some may or may not have installed an emergency fire bunker in their root cellar. You know, just to be prepared for the inevitable cornapocalypse.

But digression is easy. The point is, the life of a modern farmer is essentially one long exercise in masochism and self-flagellation. Between the uncooperative weather, the unrelenting pests, and the ever-looming specter of financial ruin, it's a wonder any sane person willingly opts for this professionally punishing lifestyle.

Take the simple act of planting a field, for instance. What was once a relatively straightforward process of churning some earth and tossing in some seeds has now devolved into a logistical Rube Goldberg machine of environmental compliance, soil sampling, fertilizer calibration, and desperate prayers to whatever Pagan crop deities may still be lingering.

Aside: An offering ritual to the great Maize Goddess Xilo'Chittlina is currently being drafted in hopes of currying favor for this year's corn harvest. We're talking ceremonial rattles made from dried corn husks, a sacrificial burning of heirloom seeds - the whole nine yards. If it means avoiding another yield straight out of Children of the Corn, whatever tribute the old ones demand shall be paid.

Of course, once those seeds have (hopefully) taken root and sprouted into semi-viable vegetation, that's when the real fun begins. Because now every waking moment becomes a battle of attrition against the myriad pests, pathogens, and other blights that want nothing more than to reduce the future cash crop into an apocalyptic hellscape of twisted, unnatural abominations.

Aside: PTSD-style flashbacks from the Great Potato Blight of '16 are still occurring. Thousands of acres, reduced to nothing but shriveled, oozing husks in a matter of days. The stuff of nightmares, tell you what. Never again will a Russet be able to be looked at without breaking into a cold sweat and whimpering softly. Therapy has been...unhelpful.

But let's say, through either divine intervention or sheer dumb luck, the crop has made it to the harvest stage without any catastrophic, sanity-shredding disasters. Huzzah! Time to start counting those cash money stacks and planning that dream vacation, right? Oh, sweet summer children...

Aside: Does anyone else have an irrational fear that the second that bumper yield finally arrives, some unforeseen biblical catastrophe will immediately descend? Because pre-emptive investments have already been made in industrial-grade weather machines, high-powered harpoon batteries, and a modest stockpile of anti-locust ordinance, just to be prepared. One can never be too careful when tempting the whimsical wrath of the farming gods.

No, the sad reality is that even after enduring the Herculean labor of actually producing a viable crop yield, farmers still have to run the gauntlet of market volatility, supply chain disruptions, and good old-fashioned corporate price-gouging. It's enough to make someone want to take up a less soul-crushing profession - like leaping from a burning biplane into the gaping maw of an angry hippopotamus, or something similarly relaxing.

Aside: Only sort of kidding about that last part. More than a few sleepless nights have definitely been spent lying awake, pondering the merits of career hippopotamus matador in comparison to the current role as a modern farmer. The agonizing mauling seems almost preferable to the annual stress of getting yields to market without getting utterly fleeced by the processor/distributor/alien lizard people price-fixing overlords.

And yet, despite all the backbreaking labor, the omnipresent threats of financial ruin and biblical pestilence, and the persistent fear that this might finally be the year crops get deemed obsolete by Brawndo or some other dystopian agri-corporation, farmers persevere. Waking up before the literal crack of dawn, strapping on mud-caked boots, and heading back out into the fields to tempt fate and appease the fickle whims of God/Demeter/Cthulhu once more.

Aside: Is it sheer insanity? Undoubtedly. A labor of love and existential dread? You betcha. But at the end of the day, what other choice do farmers have? The world needs them like a rave needs glowsticks and underaged binge drinking. They are the last, Sisyphean line of defense against a total descent into soylent-fueled, corporate-sponsored starvation. So buck up, grab that pitchfork, and pray this year's yield doesn't sprout tentacles and start speaking in indecipherable tongues. The state of modern farming is grim, but keeping on is the only option regardless. Looming insanity and potential human sacrifice demands it.