So I was listening to this podcast when something profound occurred to me.
It was a fantasy football podcast and, for the record, I loathe fantasy football. You might as well flip a quarter and try calling it, only quarter-flipping is more fun than praying your first-round pick doesn’t get horribly injured. I don’t listen to this show for the fantasy advice, anyway. It’s called The Ringer Fantasy Football Show, and I enjoy the football analysis. And jokes.
They were talking about Stonehenge. Don’t ask me how they got on that tangent, but I’m about to go on a tangent myself. One host argued that given enough time and resources, he could totally build Stonehenge. The other host deemed that ludicrous.
Turns out, in the 90s or something, some guy in Michigan actually did build Stonehenge in his backyard—or a replica of it, at least. A listener emailed this fact to the show, at which point the one host used it as evidence to suggest he could do it, too, and the other host remained skeptical.
For many, the replica ‘Henge story probably sounds extraordinary. A guy rebuilding a world-renowned monument in his backyard, by himself? How amazing! How ambitious! How enterprising! But here’s where my mind goes: What did his neighbors think?
Imagine you live in the house next to the guy who’s hauling gigantic slabs of stone up and down the street. Imagine he’s blocking your driveway with said stones. Imagine he’s tearing up the cul-de-sac, terrorizing local dogs with the construction noise, and inviting local news anchors to capture the chaos. And just imagine you’re trying to sell the house next to Stonehenge. Does any of that sound amazing to you?
To me, it’s a scenario that’s all too familiar. That’s because a guy in my neighborhood is basically the Stonehenge guy (although as far as I’m aware, he’s not a druid). I’ve only glimpsed him a handful of times, but I witness his work whenever I pull into the neighborhood. It’s impossible not to.
He builds dog crates, which sounds industrious when you first hear it, yet quickly degrades to disgust when you see his driveway and front yard. Wooden planks, workbenches, tools, and sawdust. That’s his year-round lawn ornamentation.
Did I mention the washing machine? One of those sprouted on the grass one day and stood for about a week or so. There was also a full-size bouncy house, which was almost the size of the guy’s actual house, and which came and went as mysteriously as the washing machine. All in all, I have no idea what, specifically, this guy does for a living, or why there’s always so much crap in his yard. All I know is, there’s always crap in his yard.
Normally, I’m unbothered by such things. Whatever signs, flamingos, gnomes, tchotchkes, etc.… It’s not my lawn, and if I don’t want to look at it, I won’t.
But this guy is different. You can’t ignore a 2,000 square foot bouncy house, especially when a strong wind might tip it onto your head if you happen to be strolling nearby. It’s times like these I wish my neighborhood had an HOA.
I know the acronym officially stands for “homeowner association,” but I think it needs rebranding as “Hand of Annihilation.” HOAs are tyrannical associations meant to imbue judgmental power unto old, retired people with nothing better to do than quibble about people’s shrubberies.
This should inform you how annoying this dude in my neighborhood is. Me calling for an HOA is little better than a blood pact with Satan. But hey, at least an HOA could do something about this eyesore.
…I think. I confess, I have no idea what sort of power HOAs really have. Can they kick you out out of the neighborhood if you don’t comply? Can they report you to the town? Can they cast some sort of hex upon you?
All I know is, I now know where HOAs originated. It must’ve been Stonehenge. Clearly, this structure was built by a lone, bored, ancient druid who was no different than that guy from Michigan, or the guy down the street from me. As he was erecting his mysterious structure (hmm, phrasing), his neighbors must’ve formed the world’s first HOA to destroy him, uniting under a pithy slogan which might’ve been something along the lines of, “Enough of this shit!”
In conclusion, I suppose this means I must form my own Hand of Annihilation. I’ll let you know how it goes. In the meantime, I’ll be listening to my fantasy football podcast, and wondering what deeds they might inspire me to achieve next. I’ll keep you posted on that, too.
Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include eight books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.