While driving along the North Shore there are two distinct houses. One has been there for as long as I can remember. It sits perched high atop a cliff, yet the house’s build is low and sprawling and manages to blend into the landscape quite well. It looks like a chalet that got tossed up the cliff after some ogre finished stamping it down. Its plummage is of brown and other earthy tones that allow it to disappear in the natural splendor of Bob Dylan’s Highway 61. I like it.
A new house has recently sprung from the ground and it is possibly mankind’s foulest creation. It is bedecked with a banal design and three stories of cream Sears vinyl siding. Rather than fading into the hillside, this monstrosity manages to float above the tree tops in a mocking angelic fashion. Its awful displacement will yank your eyes from your sockets and make you rub them with sand in an attempt to dispell the image.
Good god! These visions are too ugly to be real!
During today’s drive up to Tettegouche we discussed the house in question, and finally decided they could make it much worse. Next door they could build a 200-foot neon cowboy who grins and points at the house. At night the landscape would hum and bathe in the blood of Las Vegas.
No. The cowboy would grin at you as he thrusts his pelvis at the house. Duff Man is thrusting in the general direction of the problem!
No. Much worse. The cowboy would have one hand on his hips and the other on the roof of the house. The cowboy would grin at you as he thrusts his glowing red c0ck in a window over and over and over. His gears would grind in a sickening rhythm.
I can’t take it anymore! Even when I close my eyes, I can still hear that damn cowboy fucking the house!