Let’s start with a joke. A man visits a doctor acclaimed for his ability to treat melancholia. “I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, I can’t go to the toilet,” says the man. “Please help me.” The doctor thinks, then replies, “Laughter is the best medicine. The legendary clown Blompo is in town. He’s exquisitely funny and will cure you of all your ills.” The man looks at the doctor. “That won’t help,” he says. “Why not?” replies the doctor. The man shrugs. “I am Blompo.”
“Also,” he adds. “I’m trapped in the crawl space of the demonic house. And so are you, otherwise we wouldn’t be talking.” Both the doctor and clown weep uncontrollably. Laughter! Applause! Curtain down. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. This month’s diary is no mere novelty train ride through the human psyche. No. We’re taking a simple, suburban family home and turning it into a dark mirror of society. What follows is nothing less than commentary on the decline of neighborhood values and the death of the big society. It’s also a story about people in boxes wetting their pants. We’ll get to that too.
