“Uh, Dudley Bud, aspiring farmer, at your service!”

Dudley Bud had an epiphany one sunny morning. Well, it might have been a half-baked epiphany, but for Dudley, those were usually the best kind. As he sat cross-legged on his overgrown front lawn, a joint lazily dangling from his fingers, he squinted at a farmer driving a tractor in the distance and thought, That could be me.

He chuckled and whispered to a squirrel, "Dudley Bud: Man of the Soil. I can dig it!" The squirrel chittered and scampered off, possibly unimpressed with Dudley’s agricultural aspirations.

The idea wouldn't leave him. Agriculture Trade School. Learn to work the land. Maybe even pet a few cows along the way. “I’m gonna be Farmer Dudley!” he announced to no one in particular. He flicked away the now-extinct joint, stood up, and promptly tripped over the garden gnome he’d placed there just last week.

“Alright,” he muttered, brushing off dirt and wounded pride, “step one: find this magical place where they teach you to, uh, agricul.” With renewed determination (and a small bruise forming on his shin), Dudley stumbled inside his tiny house, fired up his creaky laptop, and typed “Agraculture trad school” into the search bar. The screen stared blankly at him for a moment, and so did Dudley, until it autocorrected to “Agriculture Trade School.” There it was—Harvest Hills Agricultural Academy. It boasted courses in crop cultivation, animal husbandry, and “Advanced Tractor Maneuvering.” Dudley’s heart skipped a beat. Advanced tractors? This was it.

The next day, Dudley threw on his best “meeting people” clothes—an old flannel shirt with a mysteriously singed sleeve and jeans that had seen better days. He grabbed his “lucky” rolling papers, just in case, and hopped on his rusty bicycle. The Academy was only a few towns over, a fact he had not quite anticipated as he puffed and pedaled down a winding country road. By mile three, he considered flagging down a tractor for a lift but opted to power through, fueled by stale granola bars and a sense of purpose.

At long last, Dudley stumbled into the Admissions Office, sweaty, panting, and leaving a small trail of sunflower seeds behind him (a snack gone awry on mile five). The receptionist, a no-nonsense woman with glasses perched at the tip of her nose, regarded him coolly.

“Name?” she asked.

“Uh, Dudley Bud, aspiring farmer, at your service!” He tried for a bow but ended up swaying slightly, like a tree in the wind. She sighed.

“Purpose of your visit?”

“To, um, agraculate. I mean, cultivate! Learn the ways of the soil and the tractor.”

“You mean you’d like to apply?”

“Yes!” Dudley exclaimed. “But also, do you have any pamphlets? Preferably ones with pictures of tractors.”

Despite a few more missteps—like accidentally knocking over a display of potted herbs (“My future colleagues!” he’d exclaimed)—Dudley managed to complete the application process. He wrote a personal statement that read, “I, Dudley Bud, want to farm. I promise not to mess it up...too much.” The admissions officer simply smiled, handed him a packet of seeds as a welcome gift, and whispered, “Good luck.”

Dudley exited the building, holding his seeds like they were made of gold. “I’m going to grow so many…whatever these are,” he murmured. As he walked to his bike, visions of fields of corn, potato plots, and majestic tractors danced in his head. He couldn’t wait to start his studies. And maybe, just maybe, he’d actually learn to be a farmer.

Or at least not trip over any more garden gnomes.