So you think you’re all Mr. Grownup.

You got yourself a little education, and a little job, and a little place.

You’ve kicked the small town dust off your boots and you’re large and in charge.

Whatever.

If you can still spend a Saturday at the place where you grew up with a tractor and--

(no, I’m sorry, that’s two tractors)

--two tractors and a humongous pile of rocks, while wearing a M*A*S*H T-shirt, a borrowed baseball cap, and a pair of “TUFF GUY"-brand gloves, then you’re still…

Mr. Hick.

Mr. Hayseed.

Mr. Farmboy.

And that’s okay.

Little pink houses for you and me, baby.

Little pink houses.