White House of Hotties
We have new neighbors. I have not introduced myself yet because they have ugly cars and because I miss the family who moved away. I sigh as I recollect. They were a southern Indian family: all doctors, all hot. Their beauty provoked us to song, and since they lived in a white house, the beginning of every song began with "White house of hotties, want to touch your bodies..." A rare glimpse of Raman watering the lawn or Suddha getting the mail launched us into long professions of devotion, replete with hand motions (we would make claws with our hands and pretend that we had the privilege of pinching them, any of them...)
As for the new neighbors, I know that you can't always judge a book by its cover, but most of the time you can, and I don't like them. I don't want to pinch them. However, we have had a change of heart with a family that lives across the street. The dad used to run on a treadmill in their garage, and we could hear the whirring of machinery followed by frequent spurts of yelling. That is how he came to have the nickname "Treadmill of Evil." After a few months of using the nickname (ex. "Treadmill of Evil trimmed his palm trees," and "I saw Treadmill of Evil at the hardware store,") we had a family discussion and decided that Treadmill of Evil's nickname was too harsh. It was painting every impression of him in a diabolical light. So, he became Treadmill of Hope. Somehow, by changing a nickname he knew nothing about, he began to act differently. We heard less yelling and noticed that he was spending more time with his four-year-old doppleganger. The point of this heartwarming story of love and redemption is that I may come to really like my new neighbors.
I would like to clarify that I did not like the White House of Hotties because they were Indian. I liked them because they were hot. And wealthy.