Behold the master of the house as he swings his pick ax and plunges it into the barren ground. Again, again, again, he tills the earth inch by inch for his lady’s flower bed. Feel the sweat as it pours from his brow, runs down his sunburned back, soaks through his muscle shirt, passes lightly over the blisters on his thumbs and drops finally, at last, into the broken earth. She watches, she swoons, she is overwhelmed by his stunning display of machismo, his confidence, his raw virility that oozes from his every pore. She watches as, with one swift stroke, he severs the main cable line, thus sending the entire household spiraling down an oubliette of disconnectivity.
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