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The Journal of Literary Satire | Hastily Written & Slopilly Edited
Tuesday, July 3, 2007

Things We Learned from Eunice and Marvin Weinstein after Buying Their Home in Suburbia

The lady across the street is Greek, but nice.

The young mother three doors down is not very outgoing. She hasn’t spoken to the Weinsteins once. But if she’s our friend, that’s O.K.

That green house used to have lots of beautiful trees in front until Indians moved in.

The Weinsteins spent a lot of money on their microwave.

We shouldn’t use the central air before giving the attic fan a try. We’ll be surprised.

Our house has always been owned by Jews.

The homes down the block tend to be mixed.

The sliding glass door in the den can be opened by using two hands and pushing.

Eunice Weinstein is glad that someone will finally be allowed to kill all the spiders in the house.

Marvin Weinstein understands that he painted our garage a wacky color.

The original owner died falling down that flight of stairs right there.

Supposedly, the Indian restaurant in town is very good, if you go in for that sort of thing.

Eunice Weinstein didn’t have room to pack the painting in the den. She’s coming back for it, but we can feel free to enjoy it in the meantime.

The Weinstein’s dog got electrocuted licking that electrical outlet by the window. It should probably be grounded.

All of the appliances are Maytag. All.

The people in that yellow house are pretty elderly so Indians might be moving in soon.

Wayne Gladstone lives in Maine with his wife and children. Some of his work has been featured in McSweeney's and Opium. But all of it has not been featured in The New Yorker. If Wayne Gladstone were a restaurant, he would be a defunct roadside Roy Rogers sharing space with a wildly successful Bob's Big Boy. Visit Wayne at WayneGladstone.com
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