Christmas . . . eh.
Everyone that knows me knows that Iím not really a huge Christmas kind of guy. I just never really had time for all the fun and lightheartedness and by that I mean the stress, the shopping and expense. Even when my kids were small I tried not to make a huge deal out of it much like in the way my parents didnít go overboard when I was a kid. Go ahead, call me a Grinch or a Scrooge but a few years ago I just started opting out of it all. I donít want to stop others from enjoying it, I just donít really want to be involved. So I donít put multi-colored blinking lights on my house and leave them there till spring, put a dead tree on the inside of my house, buy presents that people donít want, receive presents that I donít want, wear embarrassing sweaters, go to gala christmas events, have any inflatables on my yard or drink egg nog.
But to my chagrin, when we moved into a new house a few years back we had no idea we were moving in next to Clark Griswald. The photo above is my freaking neighborís house. He does this heavily involved and time consuming display every year and each year it is growing to ridiculous proportions. It takes him and a full crew of guys, complete with a 100 foot tall bucket truck, two weeks to do all that. Fun fact: It is one of the very few man made objects that you can see from the outer planets of our solar system. Take a very close look at that very, dark abyss in the background, that is my jew house with no lights or joy involved in it whatsoever. For two months out of the year I have to live near this supernova of holiday cheer, complete with cheezy holiday muzak blaring out of his outdoor speakers. The real kicker to all this is he has a full sized replica of Santaís sleigh in his yard amongst all that bullshit. Every Saturday night in December from 7:00 - 9:00 he sits in it wearing a Santa suit while people from miles around converge onto our normally quiet street and stand in long lines to get their kidís picture taken. For two hours every Saturday our street is turned into a parking lot of mayhem, so bad that if Iím out and have to get home I canít even get within blocks of my house, unless I go on foot . . . and I donít go on foot.
Iím pretty sure that baby Jesus and Santa Claus are both conspiring together to punish me for not digging Christmas.
But if you DO love Christmas . . . and you should, my book makes an incredible stocking stuffer for a jacked loved one. See the link below.
The Best Gym in the Hood
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