A HOUSE.....

What makes a house a home?

Is it the name on the lease after you’ve signed your first mortgage agreement? Does the fact that you own the bricks and mortar and the land they lie on make it more than just a sum of those bricks and mortar? Can it really be healthy to imbue inanimate objects with such importance in our life?

Okay then, how about a loving family? Does the typical nuclear family give meaning to that lego stack of rubble? Does that mean that a group of friends who live in a house share can’t call it their home? Do broken families never get to the feel at home ever again. How about single parents?

What about memories? Do they make it a home? Are bad memories allowed or is it just the good ones? What if I were to have an accident and lose my memories, would I be homeless then?

The truth is that not a single one of these things makes a house a home. It’s impossible for them to, because the bricks, the mortar, the family, the memories, whether tangible or not are all quantifiable things. But a home is not a thing. A home is a feeling. An understanding.

A status.

And status is oh so important when you’re in my game. That’s why the ultimate symbol of status in America is a house coloured white, and that’s why my plan is to make that White House my home come November.

But before that there is another house I need to conquer. Another pile of bricks and mortar to imbue status on, and that is the Funhouse. Now five other people want to make this nice and homely for them too, but I am not going to let that happen. I will walk in, kick off my fine Italian leather shoes, drop my briefcase by the door and slouch in the comfy chair. I’ll put my feet on the coffee table of the Funhouse. Take a leak with the door open.

Everyone will know that this place is mine and mine alone. And when I win, and give it a higher status than it has now, that will be one down and one to go on the way to the White House.

Anonymous, SeeSaw, Banzan, Jessie Williams and Sweet Alice are nothing but unwanted guests in my new abode. Verminous cockroaches, ready to be stepped on and squashed out of existence one by one. And when I kick you out of my new home, you’ll think of one thing only. You’ll all wonder why you couldn’t have a home as nice as mine. And the answer is this: None of you deserve to call the Funhouse your home because none of you have the right level of status.

Maybe one of these days you’ll command the respect I do, but until then you’ll have to make do watching a real leader make this house a home.

Vote Whitlock.