Does Playing with Dollhouses Make Me Gay?

Earlier this evening, I was talking on my cell phone when I heard the telltale sounds of a car wreck outside my apartment. Not wanting to miss the chance to gawk at freshly mangled humans, I headed out to the yard to have myself a long look. As soon as I heard my apartment door lock behind me, I realized that I didn't have my keys on me. To compound the situation, I just commenced my semi-annual war with the management of my apartment complex. In this struggle, I used tactics so heinous that I was guaranteed to be waiting a long, long time for lock out service from the maintenance flunky. At this point, it occurred to me that, perhaps, I shouldn't have called the flunky's boss's boss's boss's boss, on his direct line, and suggest that said flunky be fired countless times.

The situation became even bleaker when I realized that I didn't have my wallet or even my pocket knife. This was a particularly unpleasant surprise, since the credit cards in my wallet would have allowed me to jimmy the lock. Having the knife would have, at least, allowed me to stab one of my neighbors and steal some of their credit cards. Of course, my car was locked, eliminating another potential source of lock defeating implements. I was beginning to think that I was entirely screwed rude.

Nevertheless, as many Patterson Park regulars can verify, I am not a proud man. Thus, I headed over to the dumpster and found my salvation:


What you are looking at is the Sweet Streets^TM™ Village Care Time Hospital^TM™ and I give it my wholehearted endorsement. Per Fisher Price:

Time for a celebration-—twins have just arrived! There'’s plenty of nurturing play all through this busy hospital. You can rock the babies to sleep in their double cradle in the nursery, say hello in the reception area or waiting room, cheer up a patient with something from the gift shop, or get a check-up in the examination room, complete with changing X-ray images!

While I did, indeed, find the X-ray area and gift shop nurturing, my favorite part was the fold-out waiting room:


Not only did the waiting room have an intriguing depiction of a woman and child engaged in a mutual grope session, but it also contained plastic thin enough to jimmy my door lock. So, once the novelty of the grope-a-thon had worn off, I commenced the process of beating the living shit out of the toy in the parking lot. This procedure was doubly successful in that not only was I able to cleave a piece of the thin plastic from the assembly, but now many of my neighbors think that I'm deeply disturbed with a marked hatred of dollhouses. A win-win situation, if I've ever seen one.

So, with my makeshift "key" and ample use of the phrase, "Open you filthy bastard," I was able to gain entry to my apartment. The entire process took about 25 minutes, so I was a little disappointed in missing the blood and gore of the car wreck. That's when I noticed that I hadn't missed out after all:


Regardless of the incurred injuries, I was grateful that I found the Sweet Streets Hospital. Otherwise, I'd probably have had to pay Snay to build me a Lego catapult to propel my silly ass up to my third floor balcony.