Wednesday, August 10, 2005

On the Fourth of July, we went down to the Savannah riverfront to watch the fireworks. We ended up leaving about halfway into the show - on the way home, we were driving through the historic district, with it's row upon row of historic mansions and I saw a couple, probably in their early sixties, standing out on the balcony of one of these fabulous mansions, wearing matching fluffy white bathrobes, drinking chardonnay and watching the fireworks - they were the first people I'd ever seen at any of the fabulous historic houses and my first thought was that I hated their rich, hotel-bathrobe-wearing guts.

The house is on the corner of a fairly big street and I see it every time I'm in the historic district (at least once or twice a week) and every time I see it, I just want to stop the car, rent a ladder, climb up onto their balcony and pee on it. Sure, the bathrobe-clad-couple might be nice people, but I like to think that they made the money to buy that house by skinning orphaned kittens and making them into hot pants for Christina Aguilera's backup dancers.

I know, I know, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's mansion, but they live in a completely different zip code from me, so, technically, they're not my neighbors, and I'm free to covet them and dislike them.