Culture on the Cheap
Real Dogs and Killer Frogs
As I indicated in the previous post, the husband and I decided the luxury two family homes at Gates and Wilson Avenue were simply not for us. Being the fineass dog shit queen I am, mere Fedders boxes will simply not do: they must be Friedrich. Or— as I learned shortly thereafter, I should quit quibbling about boxes altogether and just move into one.
This one. Unlike its counterpart down the street, this palatial estate is appointed with a number of thoughtful little extras that make a house a home.
It has a knife wielding frog…
and a phat stereo system protected by razor wire and the Virgin Mary. But what’s the point of savoring some thumping beats on a brisk February afternoon if you don’t have a place to rest your weary bones and relax, you ask? Say no more!
It even comes with its own potty chair! Not only can you kick it octogenarian style, but when nature calls you can put her on hold. Indefinitely. Fuck Fresh Direct refrigerators and concierges— both are overrated anyway— THIS is what I call added value!