Hog on the Run
Monday, February 28, 2005
You want how f*#$!?g much?
Me and Sidekick sometimes fill an empty afternoon with the perusal of Show Homes. Round our way, crafty developers are forever chucking up a variety of rabbit hutches charming new-build houses.
It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.
You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."
I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."
And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.
The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.
On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.
"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.
She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.
Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.
:: gibbered Okapi, at 5:11 pm
2 Comments:
This is hilarious! When I was looking at condos the helmetheads were all like, "Well the base price for the home is only $50! But if you actually want appliances and carpet and, you know, walls and stuff, well those are all upgrades." Then I'm like, "Well I like how you have this model. How much would this cost?" "Oh this? This has all the upgrades so the total would be...let's see....well you might as well just give us your soul."
Just who is it who actually buys these houses? Where do they keep their stuff? And just how many bedrooms does your average soul buy on the open market? Scientists are working on these great mysteries even now.
Sidekick is threatening to get long lens shots of a real helmethead so that notes can be compared.
Monday, February 28, 2005
You want how f*#$!?g much?
Me and Sidekick sometimes fill an empty afternoon with the perusal of Show Homes. Round our way, crafty developers are forever chucking up a variety of rabbit hutches charming new-build houses.
It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.
You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."
I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."
And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.
The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.
On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.
"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.
She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.
Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.
It works like this: the developers decorate one of their houses in a totally fabulous! way. They then employ one or two truly scary women to sit in the sales office to handle the customers, gawkers and rubberneckers who drop by. You know those women who work at the cosmetics counter who appear, against all odds, to be wearing every product on view? They have nothing on these honeys. It's wall to wall helmet-hair, lashes so thickly clogged with mascara that vision must be rendered nigh-on impossible, flawlessly rendered foundation, and finely tuned expressions of derision and scorn.
You must negotiate your way into the palace o'tack next door by placating the real estate gorgons, nodding when they show you the various design options, and not, under any circumstances, swallowing your tongue when they say, "and the two bedroom 'Minster Miniscule' home starts from £8 billion or your first born child...."
I generally have to bite my lip to stop myself muttering, "I have none of this (what was it?) 'money' of which you speak, but I do have this rubber band, and these small pebbles - see how they glisten? They're so pretty."
And they make you wear those biohazard prevention shoe cover thingies.
The house always has at least one picture of the couple who apparently live there. He has a libidinous beard. She hasn't eaten since 2002. They look incomparably smug and virile. It is these tiny details that make it worth getting past the gatekeepers.
On a recent sojourn to the other side of reality as created by Wimpy, we were surprised by the fact that the four bedroom 'Lykeabox' had no storage of any kind. Whatsoever. At all. Sidekick was brave enough to mention this to Ms Helmethead on the way out.
"Cupboards?" she replies, "No one really fits cupboards any more."
Of course! Having places to put your stuff is so last year.
"But where would you keep, say, skiing kit?" presses Sidekick, ignoring me slightly shaking my head to communicate the fact that I would like to get out with my soul intact.
"In the garage!" she says brightly.
"So where would you park your car?" is Sidekick's rejoinder.
"Well, you see that family over there?". We lean over to see what she is pointing at. "They never park their car in the garage." I can see she's thinking: you morons, you Wimpy skeptics, you poor people.
"yes, well, um, Goodbye!" manages Sidekick as we made a run for it.
She was right. The family car was parked on the driveway, and as we went past, I caught a glimpse of the inside of the garage.
Insertion of even one more box would have required the assistance of
Escher. If you were planning to buy a new house, and have more than a set of chopsticks and one hat, don't even think about it.
:: gibbered Okapi, at 5:11 pm
2 Comments:
This is hilarious! When I was looking at condos the helmetheads were all like, "Well the base price for the home is only $50! But if you actually want appliances and carpet and, you know, walls and stuff, well those are all upgrades." Then I'm like, "Well I like how you have this model. How much would this cost?" "Oh this? This has all the upgrades so the total would be...let's see....well you might as well just give us your soul."
Just who is it who actually buys these houses? Where do they keep their stuff? And just how many bedrooms does your average soul buy on the open market? Scientists are working on these great mysteries even now.
Sidekick is threatening to get long lens shots of a real helmethead so that notes can be compared.
Sidekick is threatening to get long lens shots of a real helmethead so that notes can be compared.
