Dear Crystal Lane Residents,
First of all, happy holidays! I hope this letter finds you and your families well during the season of good cheer. Of course, I have no doubt we all wish that for one another, even if you mistakenly left it out of your many letters to me and my family. I simply want to remind everyone in this neighborhood what civility looks like.
With that in mind, I'd also like to suggest that, in the days leading up to the 25th, you take the opportunity to focus some of that energy you would ordinarily spend hand-writing my family complaints about the way we celebrate Christmas, and instead redirect that fervor and that hand to more constructive pursuits, like fucking yourself.
I'm not taking down my lightshow and that's final.
Now, I haven't been invited into many of your houses (despite the fact that my wife made you a memorable-as-fuck tuna casserole when we moved in), but, judging by your attitudes, I'm going to assume that the insides must look like prehistoric caves with mammoth vacuums and pterodactyl telephones. They'd have to because there's no goddamn way you sons of bitches would be trying to Scrooge me in the ass if you had the modern conveniences of computers and Internet access. If you had those things, you'd already know the insane traffic my family has been pulling for the last two years from the YouTube videos of our lightshows. That's right. We're famous and you whining pile of suburban nobodies wants to break the best thing that has ever happened to this community.
Oh, no! The 15 families on this street are fed up with the "light pollution" and the "barrage of pop music played at full volume!" Well, please apologize to your sandy orifices on my behalf, but the 565 fucking people who thumbs-upped last year's video don't seem to agree. This is bigger than all of us, this is motherfucking Christmas and I'll be damned if we're not going to celebrate the shit out of the birth of our Savior with Gangnam Style on repeat and a strobe wattage that can be seen from space.
If we're not making extraterrestrial contact, then we're not rejoicing hard enough.
Maybe you didn't hear about it because your head was so far up your own ass that all the butt sounds blocked out actual news, but our decorations are state-famous. Not one, not two, but three local affiliates of major news networks came out here last year to see the show we coordinated to Mannheim Steamroller. People saw that broadcast as far away as Green River. Who else in this cul-de-sac can say they're doing as much to put our community on the map? And don't you dare say Ricky Monahan leading the Cherry Hill Wolverines to a winning season because I happen to know that even the Division III schools won't accept that kid next year. That's right, Tom and Susan -- sometimes we get your mail by mistake, and I sure-as-shit read it.
C'mon, your number suggests you were playing football for the wrong reasons anyway.
Oh, and for all of you ganging up in support of Karen Macintyre and her "condition," open your goddamn eyes, sheeple. She's playing all of you. If any of you actually read a blog once in a while, you'd know epilepsy is psychosomatic, and any plain old person can bite through his or her tongue while saying it's a neighbor's fault. She can take all the ambulance rides to the ER from now until eternity -- she's not gaining any sympathizers from this house and I ask that you at least consider for a second the kind of person who would take advantage of the season of giving for her own personal gain, stealing the focus off festivity just to get a little extra attention, and, for all we know, a pile of pain killers from some trusting hospital. You think our lightshow is hard to watch, Karen? Good luck sleeping through the flickering lights during your eternity in hell.
Though to be fair, the music is probably the same.
And don't think for a second that all your criticism and threats and police calls will dissuade us from adding more lights, more songs and more kick-ass merriment to the miracle you already see adorning my house. If anything, they've reinvigorated me. I hope you assholes are prepared because I've got plans. In the next few days, prepare to see my sons strapped to shit in multicolored, pulsing lights doing a choreographed dance routine on the roof. And I hope your kids like animals because I'm building a live reenactment of the Nativity seven feet from the sidewalk, in accordance with local ordinance. You know what else? Three words: Live Fucking Birth. I've hired 14 pregnant women dressed as Mary, and two doctors dressed as the front and back of a horse to induce labor twice a day until Christmas, right there in the hay. And yes, they will all be bound in effects-lighting brighter than the sun and which changes color on every sixteenth note of Flo Rida's Whistle because this isn't my first fucking prom, thank you.
Soak it up, you asses. No sorry, Doc, not you. You're doing great.
Now, obviously, I can't make you all love Christmas. Apparently, not even my four-figure electric bill can warm your icy hearts enough to help you see what assholes you're being to Jesus. I get that. But when you start infringing on the constitutional right to exercise my religion, where does it end? Today I can't fill my pine trees with 1000mW lasers strategically pointed at each of your bedrooms, and then what happens tomorrow? I'll tell you: you'll be feeding Christians to lions all over again. It's a slippery fucking slope, folks, so wage your war on Christmas in your offices, at your schools -- but not in my front yard. There's just no room for your Grinchy party-pooping there because it's already full of prancing LED reindeer that shoot tracer rounds out of their antlers. I'm sorry if that's too real for you, but the last time I checked, Christmas was supposed to be a fucking celebration.
They're on motion sensors. Come on over.
Finally, for any of you who still can't decide between letting my awe-inspiring dedication to the best damn holiday of the year give your eyes an erection, or standing behind your safe little window, frowning like a limp dick peeing on everybody else's fun, let me just say this: I'm doing this for all of you. This is for your enjoyment because at least one person here remembers that it's better to give than to receive, bitches, and I'm giving balls-deep. So go ahead and hurl your insults like spoiled children who don't get exactly what they want on Christmas morning. My rotating steel Santa head that weights 16 tons and runs on jet fuel will only turn the other cheek.
Merry Fucking Christmas,
Most rich kids just want to be pop stars.
The Hollywood rumor mill has been playing games with celebrity deaths for at least a century.
It's easy to work the system and win these awards even if you don't deserve them.