The Supreme Court just put every house in America up for sale.
I was distressed about this. But buns cradled gently in stretchy black corduroy cannot long clench, nor quiver. Soon enough, a little voice whispered: "You do not live on prime, hotel ready property."
If only we could amend the law to stipulate that any hotel built on eminent domain property be run by a Basil Fawlty kind of character, with a documented minimum for wacky antics and subtle class commentary, I would have no problem whatsoever with the Court's decision.
The problem is that there really is only one John Cleese (as John Laroquette so unfortunately proved), and such a wealth of eminently seizable hotel-ready property. I don't think Mr. Cleese is up to running a hotel any more. He is currently enjoying pretty sweet retirement, living off royalties and occasionally posting a blog about how stupid Americans are. He might be induced to invest in the Supreme Court Inn & Resort hotel chain, but if he's not personally running the hotel, then count me out.
I just keep wondering: Was the seized house an eyesore? Seriously, because there are some real dumps behind my house in our otherwise charming little Colfax neighborhood. I'm quite sure that a lovely Bed & Breakfast with a quaint garden fountain would be in the best interests of our town. But then the little voice returns, and reminds me that, sadly, the Supreme Court hotel chain will most like not have my town on their acquisition list.
If we're lucky, this new interpretation of the Constitution might someday result in the seizing of ugly houses that are detrimental to property values.
That's my problem. I want freedom for everyone except the low income white trash shack dwellers and their unsightly TV antennae that sully my view of the canyon.
Maybe if Ben Franklin had left Jefferson's original "Life, Liberty, and the pursuit of PROPERTY" line alone, we wouldn't be having to fret about this.