Farm Economics and Animal Instincts

The farmer had arrived at that uncomfortable stage of adulthood where hope and overdraft protection nod politely to each other and part ways. He owned five very healthy female pigs, a decent barn, and a bank account that whimpered when opened. Times were tight, so he did what any sensible, slightly desperate farmer would do. He loaded up the pigs and headed to the county fair with dreams of turning pork into grocery money.

At the fair, between deep fried food and country music played a little too confidently, he met another farmer in the exact same financial mood. This one owned five male pigs and wore the same thousand yard stare that comes from balancing bills with blind optimism.

After some polite complaining and a handshake that sealed nothing legally but everything emotionally, they hatched a plan. Let the pigs meet, mingle, and do what pigs have done enthusiastically since forever. Any future results would be split fifty fifty.

There was, of course, a complication. The farmers lived sixty miles apart and neither trusted the other enough to haul pigs across that distance. So they compromised like true adults and agreed to meet halfway. Thirty miles each. Neutral pasture. No witnesses.

The next morning, long before the sun had properly clocked in, the farmer with the female pigs was up at 5 a.m., loading five protesting pigs into his old Chevy truck. This truck had hauled hay, firewood, and once an uncle who had made poor life choices. Romance was not part of its resume. Thirty miles later, introductions were made and the pigs skipped small talk entirely.

While the pigs conducted business with impressive enthusiasm, the farmer asked the other one the obvious question. “How will I know if this actually worked?”

The second farmer scratched his chin and said, “Easy. If they’re lying calmly in the grass tomorrow morning, you’re in luck. If they’re rolling around in the mud, you’ll be back here again.”

The next morning, every pig was wallowing in mud like they had season passes. The farmer sighed, hosed them off, loaded them back into the Chevy and repeated the process. This routine continued day after day. Coffee intake increased. Patience disappeared. The truck developed a smell that suggested crimes against humanity.

After more than a week, the farmer hit a wall. One morning, he simply could not get out of bed. He yelled to his wife, “Can you check the pigs and tell me if they’re in the grass or the mud?”

There was a pause long enough to be concerning. Then she yelled back, “Neither.”

Relieved, he asked, “Then where are they?”

“In the Chevy,” she said. “And one of them is laying on the horn like they’ve got a hot date.”

Moral of the story
Sex drive does not always match energy levels. Sometimes the body says no while the enthusiasm is already waiting in the truck.