Farmers have been composing this letter in their heads for years โ usually while sitting in a broken-down combine watching the harvest window close. Here it is, finally, in writing.
I've been putting off writing this letter for a while now. Every year I tell myself things will get better. Every year I turn the key at 5am and wait to see which version of you shows up โ the dependable workhorse I fell in love with, or the $400,000 paperweight with a proprietary error code and a two-week service queue.
I want you to know this hasn't been easy. My grandfather bought one of yours. My father bought one of yours. I bought two of yours and a combine another combine three combines. I have given you more money than I have given anyone or anything in my life, including my mortgage, my children's college funds, and my first marriage several years of therapy.
But somewhere along the way, you changed. It wasn't enough to sell me the tractor anymore. You needed to sell me the right to use the tractor. The software. The diagnostic access. The GPS subscription that lets me drive in a straight line โ a feature I managed, I'll note, with my own two eyes for thirty years.
Remember when a tractor broke down, a neighbor could help fix it? Remember when "I know a guy" was a valid repair strategy? You ended that. You and your proprietary service terminals and your dealer-only diagnostic laptops and your licensing agreements that I technically agreed to at 5am during planting season when I would have agreed to anything.
I've tried to make it work. I really have. I've paid the service fees. I've waited for the technicians. I once left a message with your customer support line and received a callback during the exact three minutes I was in the field without cell service, which I choose to believe was not intentional.
So here we are, John. It's over. Or rather โ I'm over it. I deserve a tractor I actually own. My fields deserve better. And honestly, your tractors deserve to be fixed by someone who loves them โ which, after that last repair invoice, is not going to be me.
It's not me. It's you. It's the entire post-2010 business model, really.
Farmers, ranchers, and rural folk across America have been composing these letters in their heads for years. Here are a few.
Got your own story, joke, or long-overdue breakup letter? We want it. The best submissions will be featured here, read aloud at county fairs, and possibly forwarded to a certain legal department in Moline, Illinois.
โ Letter received and logged. We're sorry it came to this. (We're not sorry.)
Hi. We know you're reading this. We hope your harvest season is going better than the people above. In the spirit of the free market โ which, as you know, used to include the right to fix things you purchased โ we'd like to make you an offer.
This domain, this content, and our deeply held opinions
$2,400,000Approximately the cost of three combines, or one combine plus parts and the software license to start it.
What you get: The domain. The content. The quiet satisfaction of making us disappear โ which will probably generate more press coverage than the site itself. But that's your call.
Counter-offer we'd also accept: Public support for Right to Repair legislation. Allowing independent mechanics to access diagnostic software. Removing geofencing from equipment that's been paid off. Calling Dale back โ he's been waiting.
What you don't get: The community. The memories. The Ukrainian forum post that's been shared 40,000 times. Those aren't ours to sell.
Offer expires at the start of next harvest season, at which point this site will be too busy to negotiate.