Caution: Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery Or Television

I'm still suffering the after effects of a cold. I know this because I laid in bed with my eyes glazing over to the hypnotic sounds of Chuck Woolery's voice, enticing me to buy property in White Bluffs, Texas. To be fair, he wasn't giving me a hard sell. He wanted me to come out and visit - an all-expenses paid trip for two, just eighty short miles from the Dallas, Fort Worth metro area. Deluxe hotel accommodations, air fare, and a "no-pressure" tour of what has to be the fastest growing vacation and resort community in the United States.
Luckily, the remote control was in my left hand, and the phone was across the room. It made so very simple sense: Just $399 a month would ensure me my lot, and I could pick my time to build - a year from now, or five years, even ten years from now. Did you know that the Texas State Golf Championships were held in White Bluffs for the past three years running? I didn't know that Texas had a state golf championship before I started watching. As an owner, I would be allowed up to thirty-six rounds of golf each year - for FREE! Imagine my shock and disbelief.
I know what you're thinking: Isn't White Bluffs a little isolated? That's part of its charm, and still withing easy driving distance of the cultural mecca that is Dallas/Fort Worth. It's only seventeen miles from scenic, historical Hillboro - or is that Hillsboro? They do mention an outlet mall. From the Hillsboro, Texas website: "A sightseeing must! This 1890's structure flamboyantly combines architectural accents of Classical Revival, Italianate, and French Second Empire.
The old Saturday Evening Post called it 'a monstrosity.' But Harper's described it as 'like an outstanding cathedral.' For years tourists have been coming to Hillsboro to see for themselves. You be the judge..."
Chuck told me, and anyone else who happened to be trapped in his real estate vortex, that home sites would be sold on a first-come, first-serve basis. My nerves were jangled and I could feel myself teetering on the brink of dialing the 800 number, or was it just the cough syrup kicking in? Then somewhere, through the haze came a clear and confident voice: "Change the channel, Dave." I blinked once, twice. "You do have the remote, don't you?" It was my wife, the calm voice of reason. The spell was broken. I moved on up the dial to "Pageant School: Becoming Miss America." Ah, sweet relief.