"Amazza!" he said, surveying the mounds of dirt he'd just finished. "In all my years of dirtboardin', I ain't seen nothin' prettier." But the words were empty, hollow, like the nutrient-poor soil he'd grown up on. The farmer knew the hills of Tuscany better than anyone, knew the embrace of their curves, the sensualities of their dips and rises. He'd been boarding them for nigh on 25 years now, harvesting their life-giving dirt each spring for his summer dirt crop. But it could get lonely up there for a dirt farmer, dirtboarding down the slopes with no one but the dirt waiting for him at the bottom. Standing there, his beautiful, loamy dirt spread out before him, some long-felt but heretofore unacknowledged need churned up within the farmer like so much roiling dirt and flashed across the surface, and just like that he knew: He had to leave the dirt behind.
Tune in this week to listen to your intrepid hosts talk about dirt a lot, in addition to: robots that have the legal authority to buy pizza, decorating your home on your grandma's dollar, and the sad, sad world of competitive lawncare.
Pairings: genuine mania; electrodes for strength; the knowledge that owl pellets are 68% dirt