If you are interested in stories with happy endings, you would be better off reading some other blog. In this blog, not only is there no happy ending, there is no happy beginning and very few happy things in the middle. This is because not very many happy things happened in the house of the Smiths. Jeff and Jenny Smith were an okay couple, and they were mediocre, and had average facial features, but they were extremely unlucky, and most everything that happened to them was rife with misfortune, misery, and despair. I’m sorry to tell you this, but that is how the story goes.
Their misfortune began one day after their vacation at the beach. The Smiths normally would go to the beach to escape their gross house on gray, rainy days. This was one of those days.
Jeff Smith, the husband, liked to skip cleaning the house. Like most 32-year-olds, he was right-handed (which doesn’t mean a lot considering he never used either of his hands to clean). If Jeff could find a way to invent a machine to clean up all his messes, he would. Unfortunately, he did not have a knack for inventing and building strange devices.
Jenny Smith, the wife, was a little older than 33 and wore sunglasses, which made her look cool. And intelligent. She was intelligent. The Smiths had a small library in their townhome, a room filled with dozens of books, on nearly every subject pertaining to entomology. She had read them all.
While sunbathing in the overcast weather, the Smiths spotted a tall figure striding toward them in the distance. It was Mr. Joe, their next-door neighbor. (He’s the man who always had a cold caused by the contaminated air emanating from the Smith’s home). Mr. Joe seemed to have a troubled look on his face.
“Your house,” Mr. Joe said, “has perished in a terrible fire.”
The Smiths didn’t say anything.
“I am only being facetious,” Mr. Joe chuckled.
The Smiths let out a sigh of relief.
“But I wish it did,” Mr. Joe said in a more serious tone.
The Smiths looked at each other with bewildered looks.
“Um,” Jenny said uncomfortably, “What do you mean?”
“Well,” Mr. Joe cleared his throat, “Your house is the nastiest, stinkiest, most vile home I have ever had the displeasure of living next to. Stench, stink, odor, putrid, vomit, and stale are just some of the words I would use to describe the horrid hell hole you call a home. I have never seen so much cat and dog urine on someone’s carpet and upholstery in my life. How do you people live??”
Sure enough, the Department of Health condemned the Smith’s house two months later.
(This unfortunate story could have, of course, been made a fortunate one if the Smiths would have hired Chem-Dry cleaning services to clean their carpets, furniture, area rugs, and specialty stains.)