Misplaced priorities...

I noticed something on the drive to work today that got me thinking.  I leave it to the reader to draw his or her own conclusions, because I don't really have the time or energy to sermonize this morning.  Let's just say that people are entitled to spend their money however they wish, and leave it at that.

It's a small house, of the species specifically designed in groups to be used for renting.  One bedroom, two maybe if the rooms are painfully small, with a front yard too small for kickball and a back yard that will, by August, be filled with crabgrass and wild onion.  Out front is parked an old pickup truck.  The hood doesn't close all the way, and rust is laying claim to the margins.  It's the kind of vehicle whose next destination is the corner of the driveway on permanent jack stands with a tarp over the windshield, whose bed will, a few weeks after its arrival, be used to hold the outgoing garbage.  By the sidewalk is a bicycle, training wheels dangling, laying on its side.  The back yard is a mess of old lawnmowers, an unused swingset, a metal shed - obviously a cousin of the pickup truck: rusted, paint oxidized and peeling, leaning precariously to one side.  One or two good thunderstorms, and it'll be a pile, no longer a shed.  The screen door is the twenty dollar wooden kind, hanging open, it's screen torn and dangling.

The rift in the continuum is in the center of the yard, sitting up on a sheet of BCX plywood sitting in turn on four cement blocks, connected to the house by an extension cord going inside by way of the screen door. 

A rather large and expensive looking jacuzzi.

 

Misplaced priorities...

I noticed something on the drive to work today that got me thinking.  I leave it to the reader to draw his or her own conclusions, because I don't really have the time or energy to sermonize this morning.  Let's just say that people are entitled to spend their money however they wish, and leave it at that.

It's a small house, of the species specifically designed in groups to be used for renting.  One bedroom, two maybe if the rooms are painfully small, with a front yard too small for kickball and a back yard that will, by August, be filled with crabgrass and wild onion.  Out front is parked an old pickup truck.  The hood doesn't close all the way, and rust is laying claim to the margins.  It's the kind of vehicle whose next destination is the corner of the driveway on permanent jack stands with a tarp over the windshield, whose bed will, a few weeks after its arrival, be used to hold the outgoing garbage.  By the sidewalk is a bicycle, training wheels dangling, laying on its side.  The back yard is a mess of old lawnmowers, an unused swingset, a metal shed - obviously a cousin of the pickup truck: rusted, paint oxidized and peeling, leaning precariously to one side.  One or two good thunderstorms, and it'll be a pile, no longer a shed.  The screen door is the twenty dollar wooden kind, hanging open, it's screen torn and dangling.

The rift in the continuum is in the center of the yard, sitting up on a sheet of BCX plywood sitting in turn on four cement blocks, connected to the house by an extension cord going inside by way of the screen door. 

A rather large and expensive looking jacuzzi.