Building My Home In Dickinson, North Dakota

In my previous post, I wrote that if I won the lottery, the first thing that I would do, would be to build a homeless shelter in Dickinson, partly because it is needed, but mostly because that would be what people in Dickinson would hate more than anything else.  The second most hated thing that I could do, would be to build the house that I will describe below.

In Dickinson, just as you are leaving town going north on Highway 22, Baker Hughes and Halliburton have each recently built $10,000,000 facilities on the east side of the highway.  Fortunately for me, on the opposite side of the highway, there is a 100 acre parcel of land that is available.  On the top of the hill, overlooking Baker Hughes and Halliburton, I would build my large house.  It would be a three-story Victorian house, identical to the Adams Family house, the one that was occupied by the story book characters Gomez, Morticia, Pugsley, Wednesday, Lurch, and Uncle Fester.

As it was being built, I am sure that everyone in Dickinson would be saying,”What the fuck is that supposed to be?”  Everyone would slow down entering or leaving Dickinson, saying,”What the fuck is that?”  Late at night, I would stand out on the balcony, and everyone driving by would slow down and look, and say,”Jeeze, what the fuck is he doing?”

I haven’t figured out if I would have a pond out in front, but I have to have some reason to have gargoyles with water shooting out of their orifices, out in the front yard.  Maybe I would have a family burial plot out in the front yard, and I could have a fake funeral with mourners every week, that would slow traffic down on Highway 22.  That would give the people in Dickinson something to talk about,”Why is he burying somebody every week?  I think he is killing them!”

I think that I would like to hire a couple of young ladies, to act as hostesses at my home, who would wear lavish dresses like the ones worn on plantations in the South during the 1800s, who would say to every male guest entering the home, in as much as a southern drawl as possible, “Why hello, are you in the aawwwl business?  Can I get you a draaank?”  I think after a while, it would drive everybody up the wall.  I would invite people over to my house, just to have the hostesses ask them for about the fifth time,”Are you in the aawwl business?”

Downhill from my house, I would have “Shanty Town”.  “Shanty Town” would be a retirement village for impoverished, old, disabled oil field workers.  Old bent-over black men, old one-armed white men.  The outside of their shacks, would look rickety and broken, but this would be just for appearances sake.  Inside the shacks there would be a nice modern kitchen, bathroom, living room, and bedroom, with central heating, cable television.  I really would want a nice place for poor old disabled oil field workers to live in, but I would explain to them,”Look, I want to make a statement, and get people’s attention, that the oil companies hire people to do these dangerous, hazardous jobs, and then when they aren’t needed anymore, they just throw them away.  I want you to have the chance to tell people.”

There would be a turn-off the highway to Shanty Town, big enough for tractor trucks to turn-off and park.  It would be a roadside attraction, there would be a sign beside the road, “Boiled Peanuts”, and there would be a cauldron of boiled peanuts, where old black men and crippled-up white men would ladle out boiled peanuts into styrofoam cups for all the red-neck truck drivers.  I would call all over the country to animal shelters looking for three-legged cats, and three-legged dogs, to have enough raggedy looking animals hobbling around Shanty Town.  At night time, when cars drove by, they could see the faint orange glow from the wood fires burning in 55 gallons drums, flickering on the white bed sheets hanging from the clothes lines.

All I want is for everyone in Dickinson to say,”Man, I wish that guy never would have moved here!”

 

 

 

 

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