It Happens Over There

It happens over there, a suburb, a state or half a world or more away from where I live in a quiet street with roses and hedges hanging over front fences with newly planted trees spaced along a footpath the council truck waters once a week. For anything to get past and make it to here must be filtered, sanitised and packed in biodegradable pouches and come with conditions clearly stated in print bold enough to see at arms length and most important of all, have an off switch that can be activated by an app on a phone or a remote control. What's more, it must be kept short not taking too much time for it to clash with commitments I previously made over a coffee at the gym or make me feel bad by its content or tax my nerves by taking me to a place which I have no desire to go. So, I would be pleased if you kept it over there, housed within the confines of a television screen and sandwiched between ads and promos for the latest "Reality" show. And to keep my conscience pristine, provide an address I can send a small donation to on my credit card with a receipt so I can claim the expense on my next income tax return. Thank you.