T. Thomas Tardy, or John to his friends, was born a digger, spent his life a digger, and retired at the top of his digging game, leaving behind a resume that was full of holes and, when he wasn't at the top of his game, gaps.
He purchased a small plot of land and had his own house built so that he could see the foundation dug. When the earth-movers showed up, he began to shout. You're doing it wrong! That's no way to dig a hole! I've seen mountains that were better holes that that one!
And John bounced the shovel operator out of his chair and dug the hole. Then he hired a second construction crew because the first one inexplicably quit, leaving him with a half-dug hole that led to the worst week of his life.
Basements are full of many wonderful things, and John's was no different. His was full of digging mementos, from shovels to hoes to pickaxes to the handle from his first excavator. When ever he had a friend over to his house, they would inevitably end the evening with John sheperding them through the softly-lit gallery.
Day by day, John's sorrow over retirement increased until one evening when he was in his basement. Sadness washed over him and he broke one of his glass cases and, seizing the pickaxe within, he began excavating his basement wall. One, two, three, the old rhythm returned to him. In a frenzy, he tore open another set of glass cabinets for a shovel and a wheelbarrow. He began carting the dirt out of the new hole. Digging scratched a primal itch and the inner beast howled. His sapient brain couldn't get a word in edgewise and was presently covered in beast-spittle.
Many wheelbarrows later, he paused to examine the tunnel that he'd made. He'd buried many of his glass cases in the fresh dirt and clay, but he could handle digging them out again. Planning to continue, he swung his pickaxe again. It pierced the dirt and hit something hard that broke like glass. As he dragged the head from the dirt, shards tinkled to the floor. Using a small hand trowel, John excavated one of his first hoes. Confused, he glanced behind him. He could only see the curve of the tunnel.
The Moral: Always measure your arms to see if one is shorter than the other, because otherwise you might tunnel into your own basement.