Beavers Hole is a wonderful city to live in because it is populated, mostly, with godly and appropriate people. My exclusive neighborhood Chariot Heights is especially desirable because the residents are more refined than most due to their higher economic blessings. We’re similar to a church family because we watch out for each other. Our homeowners’ association and attentive Christian concern to each other’s conduct serve as a type of built-in accountability group. We choose to live according to the highest standards, so that is why I find it necessary to impart my recent experience with a neighbor whose conduct needed some adjustment. Hopefully, you can learn how to handle such a situation from my good example.
Golden sunlight streamed through the sheers in my bedroom. “Thank you, Lord, for this glorious spring day,” I prayed aloud and stepped into my pink slippers. I walked to the kitchen and started my coffee brewing. My heart bubbled with happiness, as I anticipated visiting the nursery and picking up some flowers for my beds. “Yes, today would be very fine indeed,” I mused, as I sipped my coffee.
An hour later, I was dressed and ready to head to the nursery, wearing a casual dress, sandals, and a visor to keep the hot sun off my tender skin. I stepped onto my front porch to check the bird feeder when I saw a spectacle that I could never have anticipated.
My neighbor across street, whom I call Double D because her initials are D.D., is a tall blondish woman in her late thirties. I say blondish because she is dingy and faded like an old dishrag that has been rung out so many times its original colors are indecipherable. What I’m saying is that it is apparent that she has led a hard life, a life of sin and immorality, probably smoking cigarettes, drinking cheap beer and tequila, and fornicating in the most obscene poses with gangs of tattooed bikers, fresh out of prison. It was clear to me from the first moment I clapped my eyes on her that Double D. would not be a good fit for Chariot Heights, and the following tale confirms that opinion.
This particular morning, Double D. was wearing cut-off jean shorts so miniscule that her flabby buttocks sagged below the hairy edge of the fabric. She was bent over, so that is what assaulted my eyes first. When she stood, I saw that she was wearing a string-bikini top, and her grotesque mammary bags drooped inside the sheer fabric. Her long, stringy locks were wrapped into a knot on the very top of her head, and she had a little hummingbird tattooed on her right bicep. She waved and called out, “Beautiful day, Gladys.”
“No!” I shouted. Hysteria mounted me and rode me like a jockey. “No!” I screamed and collapsed onto the soft black soil of my flower bed.
When I came to, she was kneeling over me. Her hands rested between my bosoms and my lips felt slobbery. At first, I thought the worst. Had she molested me? Then, I remembered my spiritual intuition that she was a confirmed heterosexual nymphomaniac.
Stunned, she removed her paws from my torso and rocked back on her heels. "I'm a nurse, so I had to help, you, Gladys."
“Really? And you’re dressed like this?” If my eyes could hiss, that is what they would have done. “Get off me. Don’t make a scene,” I said icily. I stood and dusted myself off. I would need to change my clothes before my outing. She had ruined my plans, the little hussy.
I walked inside without a backward glance. I was so shaken by this disaster that I decided a stiff gin and tonic would be a good start to recover my mental and physical health. The alcohol could combat the contagions most certainly frolicking in her saliva, and it could help soften the blow of the entire episode. As I relaxed on my living room couch (post change-of-clothes), I believe the Lord guided me into the right course of action because he appeared in the armchair by the fireplace just as I had the inspiration to write my neighbor an anonymous letter. He shook his head back and forth disapprovingly, so I knew he did not like her behavior, at all. I wrote it tout de suite.
I have included that memo in my post because I know that it will help you, Most Prudent Mannequins in the Lord’s Boutique, to know how to address the nasty nudists in your vicinity.
Dear D.D. :
How dare you parade your wasted paps and slack rump like dilapidated, thrift-store yard art! You are an embarrassment to the female species. The Lord despises you for it, and so do I. Our contempt for you will smolder for all eternity unless you change your ways, which I (we) believe is unlikely.
We are watching you, so you better watch out. Never leave your home unclothed, or I cannot reckon what the consequences will be. Perhaps, a ten-thousand-dollar fine will appear from the neighborhood association. Perhaps, you will be asked to move by an angry mob carrying torches and axes. Perhaps, you will be shunned by the most prominent of our community (no explanation needed there, I’m sure).
Whatever the case, you will regret your choice in scanty clothing.
In Christ’s love,
A concerned neighbor
That same night, I delivered the letter under the cover of darkness. The next day, when I saw her, Double D. wore three-quarter-length sleeves and little capris, and she kept to herself. In fact, she scurried inside as soon as I stepped out. Yes, she had been warned, and she would comply. Thanks to my anonymous letter, our neighborhood was restored to the godly standards that make Chariot Heights the most desirable area in Beavers Hole.
Please, use my tale as an inspiration for your own good works. You are the custodians of correctness. May it propagate like spring flowers across our great nation!
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