I’m sure you’re heard the hubbub and hoopla going around our little town this week. 

If not, here’s a couple hints: He’s a famous, self-absorbed rapper who thinks homeboy Donald Trump is the cat’s meow, and she’s got a keester that knocks cans off grocery store shelves.

It’s true. As reported in Tuesday’s Enterprise, Kanye West and wife Kim, TV star and aspiring lawyer, were in town scouting out some prime real estate right in our backyard. Short of the Baldwin and Manson families, Kardashian might just be the most recognizable last name in the world. 

When this wild rumor first hit, I thought it Alex Jonesish folly, kind of like, “They’re calling for 3 feet of snow tonight.” But then I remembered my surveyor nephew Rusty was that very day meeting some multi-millionaire clients at Monster Lake about property boundaries. When I enquired, Rusty declined to confirm, citing a confidentiality agreement. I says to myself, “Leaping lizards; it IS true.”

Nothing confidential remains. The “it couple” have indeed bought that Monster Lake monstrosity. It’s a choice piece of real estate, but I’m not bitter about my offer being rejected. I can’t compete with the kind of money these show business icons have at their disposal. Heck, that property would probably be too much upkeep for me anyway.

I’m happy for the glamorous duo, but foresee a few problems with having such high-profile, visually stunning celebs making Cody their home. Apparently they’ve already checked out Sunset School for their offspring, the recently-born Psalm, Chicago, Saint and of course, North. Get it? North West? 

Talk about pretentious, huh? It’s like if my parents had named me, “Eye” Blough, or “How Now Brown Cow” Blough.

Living just a few blocks from Sunset, my concern is the constant stream of slowpoke busses holding me up when I’m running late trying to exit my parking lot will suddenly seem minor. Now there will be countless bodyguard and entourage vehicular hindrances, not to mention scores of gawkers whispering, “Do you believe what Kim’s wearing? Hubba hubba.”

Now, I have nothing against show business A-listers. They’re just people, almost like me. But once here, how many of their famous friends might come to ride their ATVs, hunt, fish and ride our horses, most likely whipping them if their gait doesn’t suit their sense of entitlement fancy. Before you know it, we may be crawling with paparazzi, movie stars, directors and Victoria Secret runway models.

I don’t know … maybe it’s not really such a bad thing. I’m sure our local merchants won’t be opposed to making a profit more than four months a year, and contractors might just be building more lavish estates than they ever dreamed possible. Who knows; maybe I’ll even land a roofing job.

If I were to happen upon Kim on the street though, I don’t think I’d turn into some wide-eyed, celebrity worshiper like she must be accustomed to. I think I’d say something like, “So what’s the deal with your step-dad all of a sudden having woman parts?” Believe me: these people find that kind of sincere, down-to-earth dialogue refreshing.

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