Brothel on My Block

The fuzz busted a brothel near my house this week.

What the hell is my nice, little neighborhood coming to? How could these people do this? This sort of thing belongs in Nevada, where it's legal, and in the Clinton White House. Not here.

Slutville was owned by a funeral home, too! The people who own the funeral home next door apparently leased out the house to the brothel people and had no idea what was going. Yeah, right.

Of course, most similar landlords are violating trust like crazy, keying their way into renters' lairs while no one is around. But the peeps taking care of the dead either looked the other way or are, like their normal clientele, a little dead in the head.

I expect more from those who bring commerce into my oversized hamlet. They're responsible for having a clue what goes on. They should have not rented or leased their secondary house to people who were going to run a brothel. Period. Can't happen. End of story.

A brothel, for God's sake! I have six nieces a nephews in this town! This is no joke.

Not only that, but they also did the old trick of painting the door red, apparently a classic sign for a house of ill repute. A few years ago we painted our front door, of course, red. But my wife says it's actually wineberry and not red, so we're OK.

Maybe not. Maybe the neighbors who knew that red door meant brothel have been laughing at us (or very curious about us) for some time. A red door in the seedy part of town in the Old West? I am thinking whorehouse. A red door a few blocks away from where I live? I am thinking they have the same taste as us.

Remind me to never judge.