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,
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