It was one of those mornings in Blenvale when the sky sagged like an old dishcloth and the community gathered with the enthusiasm of people heading to confession after a decade of sin. And there he was – the Board, our great lover, caught with its trousers puddled around its ankles, moon shining like a guilty lantern.
You’d think the community – the long-suffering husband in this tragic romance – would raise hell, shout, curse, fling flowerpots, or at the very least ask, “Why in the name of St. Patrick are your pants on the floor again, love?”
But no.
Not this community.
Not these people.
Ah, God bless them – they’ve developed denial so deep it should qualify as a geothermal energy source.
☘️ The Lover’s Excuses
The Board, red-faced and clutching the remains of its dignity, muttered excuses you wouldn’t accept from a drunk goat:
- “It’s not what it looks like.”
- “We were just auditing.”
- “The pants fell due to a reserve fund imbalance.”
- “You know how it is, these things just happen.”
- “Trust us, we’re very competent with our pants.”
And the community, God love them, nodded along like a choir of well-fed sheep.
“Aye, sure,” they said.
“That happens. Pants fall. Laws break themselves. Special assessments grow on trees. Nothing to worry about here.”
☘️ The Husband Who Refuses to See
Picture it: the Board, half-naked and reeking of mismanagement, while the community – the faithful husband – pats them gently on the shoulder.
“It’s grand. Truly grand,” he says, wiping a tear of shame he refuses to acknowledge.
“It’s not their fault,” he insists.
“The pants were under a lot of stress.”
“Anyone could have an audit like this.”
“They’re trying their best, bless them, bless their holy cotton socks.”
And you’re standing there thinking:
Are we all reading from the same script?
Is anyone else sober?
But no, Blenvale has entered that magical stage of collective delusion where even the truth shows up with documentation and the community says:
“Ah, go on. Go home. We’re not having any of that.”
☘️ The Scandal Nobody Wants to Admit Exists
Now, in any normal place a board caught in this state would be greeted with torches, pitchforks, and someone’s auntie shouting from a balcony about the shame of it all.
But Blenvale?
Nah.
They’re too polite.
Too terrified.
Too busy pretending that everything is fine, thanks for asking.
You could parade a hundred pages of breaches, lies, and missing money through the courtyard and you’d still hear someone mutter:
“Well, sure, maybe it’s performance art.”
☘️ And There I Stand
Watching the circus, wondering how many more times the Board can drop its drawers before the community finally stops pretending it’s part of the opera.
And yet, here we are:
- Audit in shambles
- Money evaporated
- Rules broken
- And the Board standing there, pants still down, offering explanations even a toddler wouldn’t swallow
But the community – ah, the community – is still clutching their rosaries of denial, insisting:
“Let’s give them one more chance. Sure, they only burned the house down twice.”
☘️ Final Blessing
So here’s to the Board – the lover nobody asked for but keeps showing up.
And here’s to the community – the poor husband who won’t admit he’s being cheated blind.
And here’s to Blenvale – the only place where pants-down scandal becomes a community-building exercise.
Sláinte.
May your humour last longer than your reserve fund.
Disclaimer: This post is satire and opinion. Read full disclaimer.
