Half-way down the block from my house, past the former porn star, across the street from the interracial lesbian couple, lives the biggest white trash ever to escape the hills of Arkansas. I don’t know their names. They are so damn trashy even I won’t speak to them. Yeah, they are THAT bad.
They have two little boys who are about four feet tall and three feet tall, respectively. I figure that means the kids are not even in first grade, but I don’t know how to match kids age with their size.
They play in the middle of the street unsupervised a lot, which means I like to drive past them fast, like I am going to hit them, then honk my horn and flip them off. Their parents’ are not around, though the interracial lesbian couple can often be seen standing in their front doorway looking concerned for the kids. So far, they haven’t turned me in to the police, so I keep up the antics.
For Christmas this year, the bad parents took things too far. They got the kids one of those mobile basketball hoops – it stands about nine feet high. They put it at the end of the driveway and the kids played hoops in our street, as if this were a charming Brooklyn scene, circa 1950. They also got the smaller tyke a motorized tiny tot car that HE DRIVES IN THE STREET. Did I mention they did all this unsupervised?
Needless to say, I felt in my element. I tried to run over the kids, but Hubby kept admonishing me, telling me that it would not be as fun for me as I imagined, and that I would not look good in prison orange. He doesn’t get it. I wasn’t really going to plow them down. I just wanted to scare them into therapy that would last into their fifties.
At the same time, I was deeply concerned about property values for the homes on my street. That hoop really trashed up the place. I could not get over the parents’ thoughtlessness for their neighbors. First, their kids make a tricky obstacle course, and second, that hoop devalues my home by a good 100K. I go from living in a respectable neighborhood with a former porn star and a mixed lesbian couple, to living on a dead-end street littered with tots and hoops.
I started to write a letter to the neighbors, as well as the neighborhood association, and hubby was going to call the police, he said, if he saw the tinier tot in the street again driving around in his midget car. Alas, someone must have beat us to the punch, as the kids are now inside, the hoop is gone and my street is looking semi-middle class again.
Of course, it is an insanely windy day in Vegas. Hubby thinks the parents’ simply are keeping the kids inside. I think he’s wrong, personally. They let the kids play IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STREET, did I mention, UNSUPERVISED? Why should some hurricane force winds suddenly cause them to have parenting skills?
Please God, or W, or Frank Sinatra’s ghost, or whoever is in charge, please change this one thing in the world: you have to have a license to buy a gun, but you don’t need anything but sperm and egg to have a kid? Controller of the Universe, please right this wrong.
