The Invisibors

Still haven't had more than a brief glimpse of the new invisible stealth neighbors, or Invisibors, as I'm feeling free to call them. This is glorious, really, but I am beginning to suspect they are NSA operatives fronting as rednecks. While they remain out of sight, at least seven telecommunications vans have spent considerable time in their driveway since their arrival.

Last week, the utility company sprayed red lines all over their yard and, enjoyably, over my fence and onto my lawn. There's now a bright red arrow in my grass pointing towards nothing, which I know from experience will remain there for at least 10 months. This morning another cable company van parked in front of the house, and the man spent an hour rolling out black cable lines along our fence while our dog pulled every muscle in his tongue trying to lick the guy through the slats. A little while ago, a white car the size of a postage stamp with an orange flashing light stuck to the roof pulled up, and out came a teenager in a sideways baseball cap holding a large can of orange spray paint. For a moment I thought we were finally getting some urban action around here, but then he too proceeded to spray lines all over the Invisibors' grass and, yes, over the fence and onto my lawn again. I went outside and told him we were all stocked up on spray-painted grass over here, but he said he "had to".

So I'm left wondering if that small satellite dish near the property line will be used for Dish Network or decoding Russo-Chinese signals in outer space. You never know how far technology has really progressed. I mean, we send texts from a tiny cell phone up into outer space many times a day, so who's to say what that innocuous-looking dish is REALLY up to, hmm?

I also suspect they are NSA operatives because they've got more game than your average Splendaville residents. I know this without having met them because last weekend, The Mister took Phartacus around the neighborhood to hock scout popcorn, and called on the new neighbors. Turns out they have their own little scout (clearly a Romanian orphan brainwashed for the job) and The Mister came home with a $9 sale on the order form and a $17 bag of caramel corn under his arm that he purchased from them. Have I mentioned that The Mister makes his living in sales? Way to close that hard sell, baby.

Oh yeah, they're up to something.