We don’t have brothers. Which is probably a blessing. I can’t fathom how a Feinberg son would put up with Betsy’s bossypants and inability to go anywhere sans poodles or baked goods. Or Marjorie’s ‘tude and sweaty midget hands/overall ragamuffin fuckery. And especially moi… what with my blaring showtunes first thing in the morning. And he’d never feel safe bringing his buds over after school. But a broseph really would have come in handy growing up so that we could have had a tricked out tree house, a la Swiss Family Robinson!
For some shipwrecked Scandanavians, they seem to have understood the assignment. Monkeys riding dogs, Pirate warfare, silly hats, and a home sweet home made entirely of palm leaves and driftwood. Throw in an ambiguous Italian bartender who no eyebrows and a few cuba libres, and Bezusita would set up shop there in a hot minute.
This one ^ is super legit. I feel like whoever owns it has stashed some Chard, a case of four loco, whoopie cushions, the Now & Then soundtrack, stink bombs, and other assorted props for mischief up in there.
Treehouses are perfect for snooping, sniper practice, and throwing water balloons. They are also the perfect backdrop for getting weird, just ask those Dawsons river kids and typy WB-era hot young idiots who would steal away to play kissy face in those huts of hormones.