Burt’s WiFi was legendary. Not for its speed, mind you – it was slower than a snail riding a tortoise. No, Burt’s WiFi was legendary for its insatiable thirst. It craved data like a camel craves an oasis after a month-long sandstorm. This was a problem for Agnes, Burt’s neighbor, a woman who considered online solitaire a competitive Olympic sport.
“Burt!” she yelled across the fence, her voice as sharp as a cheddar grater. “Your blasted WiFi has stolen my high score! Again!”
Burt, a kindly old man with a walrus mustache and a penchant for novelty socks, poked his head over the fence. He adjusted his spectacles, peering at Agnes with a look of innocent bewilderment. “Agnes, my dear,” he chuckled, “my WiFi is just… thirsty. It needs to hydrate, you see. It’s like a little data sponge.”
Agnes wasn’t amused. “A data sponge that’s sucking the life out of my Candy Crush saga? I think not!”
Burt sighed dramatically. “It’s a new feature, you see. I call it ‘Data-licious Hydration.’ It’s all the rage in the advanced WiFi community.” He winked, as if revealing a profound technological secret.
Agnes stared at him, speechless. Then, a mischievous glint appeared in her eye. “Oh, I think I understand. It’s thirsty for data…because it’s secretly powering a giant, hidden sprinkler system to water your prize-winning begonias, isn’t it?”
Burt’s jaw dropped. He looked at his spectacular begonias, then back at Agnes. “How… how did you know?” He stammered, utterly defeated. His prized begonias, it turned out, were indeed thriving thanks to a secret, data-powered irrigation system, fueled entirely by Agnes’s lost online game scores.
