I’ve said it before, and I’m sure I will say it again: if you are of delicate sensibilities, or are otherwise easily offended, I strongly caution you against reading any further.  I’m looking at you, Mom.

I’ve just spent two hours in the garden, and I rather feel the need for a cold shower.  There is something surprisingly sexual about using a roto-tiller.  The thrust, the penetration, the grind of it all.  Grunting and rooting in the dirt.  I began to feel rather warm.  Although, given the raw mechanical violence of the process, the noise and the stink of the exhaust, I suspect that it is not a wholesome sexuality.

Please do not tell the toaster what I’ve said here.