Untitled Document

NIGHT OF THE LIVING SUBURBANITE

by Les Invested

All style, no substance. On the front lawn of a neo-Victorian tract home a fat man watches his shadow at sunset. Looks good to him. He's a lard skinned donut eater in a leather biker jacket. He wears wash-off tattoos. He has no neck and his belly probably weighs almost as much as he does. He has no butt, just the cleavage that sticks out the top of his pants. He drives his mini-van four blocks to the 7-11 to get more lite beer and cigarettes. He's a sports fanatic who's never played any. He hates rich people but plays the lottery religiously. He listens to lite rock or country music. He loves Mexican food; hates Mexicans. Loves Soul music; hates black people. His main goal in life is getting laid and someday getting to go to the Super Bowl.
He and his wife have a giant-screen color pacifier in stereo with cable. Their children each have their own 19 in. diagonal screen baby-sitters. A considerable amount of time is lost around this household searching for remote control devices. Food gathering and exercise is done during the television commercial breaks. All movement outside the household is by wheeled vehicle.
His wife spends mega-dollars on beautifying her head and hands. Too expensive to do the rest of her body. A credit card keeps her draped in regular fabrics with expensive labels. She spends most of her day slaving over a dishwasher, microwave and ATM machine. The rest of the time she's on the phone. She's a regular on the Home Shopping Network. Her most rigorous exercise is meddling and shopping. Her main goal in life is not getting laid ever again and traveling to every tourist trap in the United States in a Winabago. Graceland would be the ultimate.
Her son spends every dime he can squeeze out of his dad on his imported mini pick-up truck, which looks like a parade float but has never been used to haul anything. He can't figure out the sales tax on one dollar but he made a thousand dollars on a dope deal this week. He can't find the Pacific Ocean on a map of the world. He can't find his butt with both hands. He's a party animal who's main goal in life is getting laid and getting gas money.
His sister has the right clothes (this year), the right hair (this month), the right make-up (but too much). She can't see but won't wear glasses (or contacts). She has the current body language and slang memorized and perfected. Her boyfriend has the right car, the right clothes, and the right hair too. She wouldn't be caught dead with anyone else. She hates kids. Most of her time is spent hanging out at the mall after school or watching television. Her main goal in life is shopping and getting laid, and some day in the distant future ( five years or so ) to marry a guy with money.
This typical white suburban family owns four cars; each a status symbol in price and name but which are actually engineering faux pas. One is a pseudo-luxury car. Another is a mini-van. One is a four wheel drive pick-up that's never been in the dirt and one is a hippified foreign economy compact. They have a mortgage on a ranch-style tract home across the freeway from The Godzilla-Store Mall. They own a dog and everybody in the family thinks that somebody else has been feeding and walking it.