the stepford neighbors
Will all the people who want perfect communities with perfectly manicured lawns and regulation-height shrubs and houses painted in only five different shades of yellow and no kids, pets or Christmas decorations, please pack up your shit and leave. Go form your own country with your own damn rules and have fun living in a sterile, perfect environment where your lives are one endless drone.
What is going on with the adults of America? Has someone slipped a Stepford Adult potion into their Metamucil?
In the past few years there has been a surge of people who draw up petitions at the blink of an eye. They don't want the ice cream man in their neighborhood because the music he plays wakes up their kid. They don't want you to skateboard or rollerblade or be able to play on the school playground when school is not in session. They want to regulate how loud you can play your stereo, what color you can paint your house, where you can park your car and how many wildflowers you can grow in your own garden.
Now, they want to take away the basketball hoops.
Citing safety concerns, communities in Kentucky, Nevada, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Oregon and Pennsylvania have banned portable hoops in or around streets. Others are shooting to do the same.
"We all want to be Mayberry, but no government official can look a parent in the eye and say, 'It's OK for your children to play in the street,"' said Paulsboro Police Chief Kenneth Ridinger.
Mayberry? Not me, thanks. I always thought Andy was bit on the weird side.
Never believe anyone when they sayit's For the Children(tm). That's just a coverup for othe subversive activities. In this case, aesthetics. Basketball hoops ruin the look of the neighborhood. They kill the continuity of the sidewalk. They attract kids. They will keep your block from being a perfectly coiffed version of suburbia, with no distractions or ugly accessories.
If these Stepford citizens have their way, soon your life will be a vast, sterile emptiness.
From basketball hoops it's a slippery slope down to the bottom level of this suburban dictatorship.
Your car has a dent in it. Your flower garden has weeds. Your dinner makes the block smell of garlic. Your music sucks.
You and your wife come home from the hospital, beaming with pride at the arrival of your new son. But man, is he ugly. He looks like a cross between ET and Winston Churchill. The neighbors gasp. The kids cry. And before you know it, you are run out of town, torches burning, former friends chanting your name with some ugly epitaph after it while Iron Maiden's Run to the Hills plays in your head and your wife screams "We are not animals, we are humans beings!"
There's a place for people like the ones who want to wring every single drop of joy out of suburban living. No, not hell. It's called Stepford. Just look it up under"gated communities" in the phone book.