“Appalachian Spring” isn’t playing in the background, no one frolics in the hay, nothing is raised from the earth, shipped to market, or sold at a quaint stand by the highway. No spiders befriend pigs, no animals reveal themselves to be more equal than others, no crystal is unearthed below the barn floor to guide young Clark to his arctic fortress. The U.S. government does not pay anyone to not grow corn, Willie Nelson doesn’t stop by to lament its decline, and there are definitely no Joads.
If just one person in Seymore Butts’ Ass Farmer sported a pitchfork, it would have justified the title.
Luckily, there is plenty of ass in it. And Havana Ginger’s nipples are bigger than a country ham.
Read the review here.
Previously: This house is a party bus; Possa engooped; Tull, Mari Possa rule
See also: Pureplay
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