HOAs: Beige Empires of Suburban Despair

Homeowners’ Associations, or HOAs as they are known to those who’ve lost the will to pronounce full words, are a uniquely Earthling form of governance found primarily in a nation-state called the United States of America. They represent humanity’s remarkable ability to take the simple concept of “living next to other people” and transform it into a bureaucratic nightmare that would make a Vogon weep with jealous admiration.

An HOA is essentially a small governmental body with all the petty authoritarianism of a galactic empire but with jurisdiction over precisely 0.0000000001% of a planetary surface. Its primary concerns include: the exact shade of beige permitted on exterior walls, whether decorative garden gnomes constitute a threat to property values, and ensuring that no resident ever, ever parks their spacecraft—sorry, “recreational vehicle”—in their own driveway for more than 47 minutes.

The phenomenon emerged most vigorously in the American South following a period in the mid-20th century when certain neighborhoods sought creative legal mechanisms to control who could live near them, often along racial lines. While the more explicitly discriminatory practices were eventually outlawed, HOAs persisted, evolving into equal-opportunity irritants that now torment humans of all melanin concentrations with democratic impartiality. They have, in this sense, achieved a kind of progress: everyone can now be equally miserable about the approved mailbox colors.

A Cautionary Tale

Guide editor Zaphrina Krell learned about HOAs the hard way during a research assignment to Earth. Having aquired a small dwelling in a place called “Sunset Meadows Estates” (which contained neither sunsets, meadows, nor estates), she made the fatal error of painting her front door a cheerful shade of purple—perfectly normal on her home planet of Flargathon VII, where purple doors indicate “please don’t vaporize the occupants.”

Within 72 hours, she received a violation notice. Then another. Then a hearing invitation. Then a fine. Then a lien threat. The HOA board—three retired humans, two of whom were named Karen, with more free time than the immortal beings of Kakrafoon—insisted the door be “Desert Taupe” or “Approved Tan #4.”

Zaphrina attempted to explain that purple doors were a safety feature. The board was unmoved. She offered to pay triple dues. They wanted Desert Taupe. She threatened to file a complaint with the Galactic Tribunal. They had never heard of it and didn’t care.

In the end, she painted the door beige, sold the property at a loss, and added a note to Earth’s Guide entry: “Mostly harmless, but bring approved paint samples.”

The HOA sent her a final violation notice for the “unauthorized sale sign font.”

She vaporized them.