BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

And, no. For those of you who are old enough to remember this, I am NOT about to break into a rousing chorus of  “I Do The Watusi” by Howie Mandel. If you are too young to remember, then click on the link above and have yourself a taste of post St. Elsewhere but pre Deal or No Deal Howie…

But, as usual, I digress…

MY questions aren’t about cottage cheese in shoes, or hamsters named Phil residing behind bars (again, see the above link). Mine are about this show called Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

I accidentally watched a couple of episodes of this thing. Primarily because I turned on the TV and there it was. I used to like watching stuff like This Old House and Hometime, so I gave it a go. In case you haven’t seen this thing, it basically revolves around that hyper guy who used to do the Sears commercials and a group of interior decorators/remodeler/contractor types. They roll into a town in a tour bus and right up to the door of the person selected for the home makeover (via an interesting application process I’ve now found out). They send the person and their family off on an all expense paid vacation for a week, then demolish their house and put a new one in its place. All good, correct? I mean, especially when you consider that the people who manage to run the gauntlet of the application process are usually in some way, shape, or form, nearly destitute. They can’t pay for even the simplest of repairs on their home, in some cases the home is being condemned by the city, they have a whole raft of kids, and are living hand to mouth, and it seems that a prerequisite is to also have one or more disabilities in the family unit. These people are desperately in need of help. So, this show is doing an incredibly good and charitable thing for these folks…or so it seems.

These TV personalities roll in and replace the existing home with a brand new, completely decked out, much larger “dream home” by almost anyone’s standards (except the unnaturally wealthy that is). I’m talking in terms of a 45K shack or even a  worthless piece of falling down condemned building being replaced by a 250K to 350K home (And I’m just talking about the “shell of the home” when I toss out that number, because it doesn’t end there…They end up with all of the redecorating amenities, all new furniture, plasma TV’s on damn near every wall, and a kitchen that would make Emeril scream BAM! at the top of his lungs…Not to mention added bonus stuff like expensive toys and/or sports memorabilia for the kids, etc…–and that is just naming a FEW of the niceties.)

Well, here is where my questions start popping up.

Now remember, like I said, most of these folks (the ones I’ve seen so far, at least) can barely make their mortgage and feed themselves too, so let’s keep that in mind, as that is what is prompting most of my questions…

1) Who is going to pay the taxes on this new house? They are going to be a hell of a lot higher than they were before.

2) How do the rest of the people in the neighborhood feel about this monstrosity sitting next to their smaller homes? This new home’s value is definitely going to affect the neighborhood standing, and therefore the values and taxes on their homes. One way or the other. Either THEIR taxes are going to go up, or if the neighborhood is REALLY depressed, suddenly the city is going to come in and start condemning everyone else’s home. Next thing you know eminent domain happens and developers get their fingers in the pie, and…well, you see where I am heading…

3) Since these “dream homes” are normally being plunked down in middle to lower class neighborhoods, what would happen if for some reason that home needed to be sold? You sure can’t get the dollars that went into it back out of it if the neighborhood won’t support it. Unless, of course, some permutation of the question number 2 scenarios occurs…

4) Why in all hell do these people need Plasma TV’s on almost every wall in the friggin house? That’s one I just can’t get my head around…

and finally…

5) Wouldn’t it be better for ABC and this program to build smaller, less opulent homes that are livable and solid, thereby being able to build MORE of them and actually HELP MORE PEOPLE who need it? Oh, I don’t know, like maybe in Mississippi and Louisiana? People who are living in ratty FEMA trailers and not knowing when or if they’ll ever manage to get their homes rebuilt?

Yes, I know. If they were to actually do number 5 then it wouldn’t be EXTREME, and they wouldn’t have a viable TV Show would they?

Well, sorry, I still see this as a rather ridiculous excess. But then, that’s just my opinion…and you know what they say. That and a buck will get you a cup of coffee (as long as you aren’t talking Starbucks. Nothing against Starbucks mind you…it’s just that you won’t get a cup of coffee there for a buck…)

MR

“Twas the Night Before Christmas, 21^st Century Edition”

Copyright © 2006, M. R. Sellars

Twas the night before Christmas, and all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even my spouse.

Her wet stockings were hung in the bathroom with care,

My razor was dull and full of her leg hair.

My wife was nestled all snug in our bed,

While visions of shoe sales danced in her head.

When out in the living room there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my keyboard to empty my bladder.

And what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But some fat S.O.B. drinking my last beer.

His eyes were unfocused, and his cheeks were a-flush,

I could tell at a glance that Santa was a lush.

His knees how they wobbled as he finished with a slurp,

Then he got up from his chair and let out a burp!

“Hi there, young fella,” he said with a *hic*

“Best get outta my way, I think I’m gonna be sick!”

He rushed to the bathroom and I heard my wife scream,

Seems she was in there and didn’t think this too keen.

What was next to occur was kind of a shock,

I found her pummeling Santa with our new alarm clock!

“Hey honey, chill out!” I said with a start.

“Surely you don’t wanna kill the old fart!”

“Look lady,” Santa cried as he lurched and careened,

“I only got airsick ’cause I forgot my Dramamine!”

“So you’re NOT just some drunk?” I asked as he scratched his crotch.

“Of course not,” he replied, “But I WILL take a Scotch!”

“And to show there’re no hard feelings,” he chortled with glee,

“Tell me what is it you’d like to find under your tree.”

I took a sharp breath, and held it inside,

Santa you fool, you’d better run and hide.

You’ve asked the wrong question, instead of the right,

And now you’re gonna be here the rest of the night.

My wife’s eyes sparkled, teeth showing as she grinned,

And the next thing I knew she had the guy pinned!

Catalogs flew, and flyers they fluttered,

Creating immediately a large pile of clutter.

Santa couldn’t move and his eyes filled with fright,

Seeing her chance my redhead squealed with delight!

“Some diamonds and pearls, from this place and that!

Some pumps and some boots, and maybe a hat!”

She ran down her list in a voice filled with glee,

All I could think was “I’m glad it’s not me!”

Santa wriggled and squirmed as she sat on his chest,

Then he shouted and hollered, “Hey, give it a rest!”

But my wife wasn’t finished, that much I knew,

For she held that elf down and started anew.

“Sapphires and rubies, and rings of white gold,

I don’t even care if they’re new or they’re old!

A black leather jacket and a skirt that goes with it,

Matching gloves and a gift card that spends without limit!

A full length fur coat, synthetic of course,

Hey! Are you taking this down? Don’t make me use force!”

The old guy kept kicking, and somehow broke free,

How he managed to do so was way beyond me.

But my redhead was behind him as he sprang for the door,

While she screamed, “No, don’t leave now, for I want so much more!”

Santa ran through my yard as though he were scared,

And I can’t say I blamed him, for I doubted I’d be spared.

He hollered, as he raced, his words not too thrilling,

In fact I must say they were in all senses chilling.

With what he said, I had no choice but to agree,

For she was all wound up and he was leaving her with me.

Now here’s the last thing I heard, as he fled from this strife,

“I’d stay for that scotch, but I’m afraid of your wife!”