“Atlanta is a beautiful, international city with old-fashioned Southern charm,” related city councilman Snidely Whiplash (R) with a twirl of his well-oiled mustache, “but we always felt it was lacking something. Then it hit us…a giant abandoned hole! What major metropolitan area’s nicest zip code has one of those?”
Once the city had decided upon its visionary plan for the future, developers sprung into action. The formerly Bourbon-Street-esque Buckhead Avenue and Bolling Way were closed to the public so that the haphazard silt fences and head-high weeds could be installed. In a dazzling display of efficiency,construction equipment quickly excavated the cavernous chasm where fuzzy good-time memories had once been made, then immediately vanished. Monstrous cranes were installed onsite, presumably to survey the enormous pit from above, as opposed to actually building anything new.
The list of bars that were closed down was extensive: Buckhead Saloon, Robert’s, CJ’s Landing, The Living Room, BAR Atlanta, and Tongue and Groove, among others. Gone forever was Uranus and its associated puns that its owners had never heard before; gone was Mako’s and its “I’m not QUITE a stripper yet” swing, gone were Lulu’s Bait Shack and its fishbowl-fueled rooftop patio with amazing summertime views. In their places, to the horror of fun-seekers and the city’s lasting delight, are now acres of exposed red clay, a pile of bricks, a hardhat, and seven rusted-out steel drums that harbor a frightening population of mosquito larvae.
“The whole thing really progressed nicely from the get-go,” stated Whiplash, as he adjusted his monocle. “Our ‘Buckhole’ was beautiful beyond our wildest dreams…and not a penny of sales tax money was coming in from its use, or lack thereof! The contractors did a phenomenal job. We asked for a hole, and they delivered it. The fact that it’s an amazing eyesore is just gravy.”
When asked what plans the city had next for beautification, Whiplash admitted that lingering looks had been taken at Crescent Avenue or the Virginia-Highland neighborhood.
“A landfill, maybe. Or perhaps a dilapidated salmon cannery. It’s really too soon to say,” laughed Whiplash maniacally, as he drew his cape over his face and backed quickly out the door.