For those of you Dope City motherfuckers who look forward each summer to stimulating your appetite with a couple green bombers of the world's best marijuana; chasing the green dragon with a few cold ( good for your prostate) brews; and having a good feed of the other crop us Fraser Valley farmers are well known for - corn - the plants are about 18 inches high now.
The daisy cutter clouds turned the young corn a black shade of green as my dog and I were made small by the cow, chicken and dope filled barns around us. The seed atop the dyke grasses along our way reaches above my head into the mushroom mountains. Above us, four fast food crows moved along a bald eagle for something to do. The farmer's horses, now comfortable with the presence of the Hammer and I in their neighbourhood, nodded like junkies who had just robbed a bank as we passed.
As we walked the rain began to fall. It landed like neutron bombs in the dust on the roof of the dyke. Soon it was an all out storm we were in the middle of. The sudden coolness sent my dog into a frenzy. She tore up and down the dyke, diving into the long grass in search of phantom rats and Muslim terrorist cells.
The rain first soaked my hair, then my England jersey, then my shorts. Pretty soon my balls were swimming in the warm rain of a Canada drowning in an endless sea of terror and conservatism.
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