[this is satire]
My best friend David was giving me a tour of his organic farm. “Over there,” he said, pointing to a distant spot on our left, “grow the herbs. And also, in that general direction, are berries. To our right are where the cauliflower, potatoes, carrots and so on have their homes.”
“David, you seem to have found a true idyll,” I commented.
“Yes, I have. It is very tranquil out here, so I am more relaxed than in the city. And I’m actually able to eke out a living with the crops and my coffee roasting. I’ve never been happier,” he said with contentment.
“What is that?” I asked, pointing to a large mound of a brown substance.
“It is called dirt, my friend,” he laughed.
“I bet there are big germs out here, huh?” I asked.
“There are no such things as ‘big germs,’” he laughed again.
“Clearly you’ve never seen the big germs in Indianapolis,” I replied. “The other day while driving I spotted one sauntering up the sidewalk, and it gave me the finger!”
“My friend, that ‘germ’ you saw was probably a gentrifier,” David said.
“I thought gentrification was viral, not bacterial,” I replied with a chuckle.
“You could be right,” David laughed.
“My friend,” I said, “I think that for the sake of my organism I, like you, must leave the city and find my own bucolic idyll. I think I will sell my house, quit my job, put a big camper on my 1975 Chevrolet pickup, and tour the country in search of my paradise.”
“Dear fellow,” he replied, “the only ‘tour’ you’ll be making with that gas hog is a tour of the nation’s gas stations!”
Rocky the Diabolical Cat™ is currently on assignment in Baghdad. He will resume writing the Downtown Diary upon his return.