What is a plaid collar crime and can you tell me about your experiences as a plaid-collar criminal that will deter me from such a lifestyle?

A plaid collar crime is committed when one indulges in criminal activity that directly affects a farmer. Until today, I was under the impression such a collar-crime did not exist, I now realize most of my life has been spent committing these crimes. During my college years (when I was laboriously earning my double minor in both Gay and Jewish studies) it was not uncommon for me to make a day of journeying down the road until I came upon a farmer so I could punch him in the face. I was under the impression this was a victimless crime. But my personal siege against the farmers of America started much earlier than that.

In sixth grade, I slipped into a deep depression. Like many other sixth graders, I turned to alcohol. I missed countless science fairs because instead of constructing a model volcano, I opted to spend my days and nights at the bars. And before you ask, “How did a sixth grader get into a bar?” allow me to clarify. At the age of 11 I had an impressive moustache, and, as many are aware, it is an unspoken code of conduct among bartenders that one should not deny a man with a moustache alcohol. I exploited this daily until my tender 11 year-old liver could take no more.

The moment I grew tired of complete inebriation (age 12, if I remember correctly) was about the same time that I began my life as a plaid-collar criminal. I began sleeping with farmers’ daughters. This, believe it or not, is not a plaid collar crime unless you tell a long shitty joke about the whole experience. I then moved onto sleeping with farmers’ wives, which is a plaid-collar crime regardless of the fact you tell a joke about it.

My teachers began to notice my life slipping into the plaid-colored underground when my schoolwork began to suffer. I was confronted about my criminal life style when, instead of giving of a book report, I gave a moving fifteen minute oratory to the class about which of the local wives and daughters of farmers were the best lays.

I received a B+ but only because I could name all the anatomical parts of a vagina.

My teachers (and later, my parents) concern about what I was becoming only pushed me further into the very same lifestyle they were trying to protect me from. Before I knew it, I was stealing tractors from farmers and turning them into giant bongs. Turning something that isn’t a bong into a bong isn’t really any kind of crime, but stealing a farmer’s tractor certainly is. That’s what the cops explained to me, at any rate.

I was arrested quite a few times until the judge got sick of seeing my face and gave me five years. My parents received ten years on the grounds of the worst parenting ever. I was not aware the law could incarcerate someone for being a bad parent, but I learned a lot that year. As an ironic twist, I was sentenced to serve my prison time in an establishment that housed only farmers.

The other inmates were scared of my 14-year old self. My fellow inmates were farmers but they kept this information to themselves. They knew I had a reputation and they knew better to taunt me. I can’t blame them. I was a scary dude, and they knew if they crossed me I would do everything in my power to steal their tractors and turn them into bongs.

My limited interest (limited to the point that I would only minor in both) in Gay and Jewish studies was not sparked during prison. In reality, my love for the theatre blossomed in prison. This love ultimately allowed me to channel all my hate for farmers and their kin into prison-wide productions that so clearly depicted my hate for farmers and their kin. Inmates jumped at the opportunity to be in my productions and since everyone knew the consequences of choosing to opt out of one of my plays (tractor, bong), the productions were equally impressive and successful. In the eyes of the parole board, my creative outlet qualified me for my freedom, and I only served seven days of my five-year sentence.

That calendar week changed my outlook, and I soon realized farmers are not the enemy.

I am a better man now, but unfortunately, like my aforementioned habits in college, I found myself slipping back to my old ways under times of extreme stress.

Readers, I encourage you, take what you must from this story. Do not make the same mistakes I did.