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Mrs. Turtleboy likes Christmas way more than I do. When I get in her car she’s already got XM radio station 17 on, which apparently plays Christmas songs 24/7. There are actually a million different ways in which you can sing Jingle Bells I found out, and most of them suck. But what she likes more than anything are Christmas lights, so the other night on one of our romantic trips to the Leicester Walmart we had to make a pit stop at this house which apparently is some sort of mecca for Christmas spirit.
Now I don’t know the people who own this house, and I’m sure they’re lovely, amazing people. But as for me, I’m all set with having thousands of Spencer’s finest stampeding through my yard dropping cigarette butts. You can see this Goddman house from a mile away. Planes flying into Worcester airport probably think it’s the landing strip. We actually had to find a parking spot down the street because there were so many people there. I felt like I was going to the free version of the Big E. Mrs. Turtleboy was in heaven as we came across Leicester’s 8th wonder of the world:
My question is, who’s paying for the electricity, and how can this possibly be worth it? What are these poor people getting out of this besides a gigantic bill? I mean, God bless em, but there MUST be something they get for doing this. Is there some prize out there for letting every dude from Cherry Valley with a Voke-stash walk on your lawn for free?
Now while this whole display was pretty impressive, I think they’re kind of stretching what Christmas is all about in order to throw more stuff on their lawn. After all, who doesn’t equate Christmas with Bart Simpson?
or Winnie the Pooh
or that asshole Sponge Bob
or Hello Kitty
And when you think about Christmas, who DOESN’T think about Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs?
And what says Christmas more than a movie about African lions?
or a killer monkey on top of a minivan surrounded by palm trees
and apparently there can just never be enough snowmen. Even gigantic house-sized snow men doing their Titanic pose
and snow babes
and no Christmas house would be complete without a reindeer putting out the fire in Santa’s fat ass
Apparently Santa tries to light his farts on fire too.
Like I said, I’m sure the people who own this property are very, very nice folks. But I don’t think I’d want to turn my house into a tourist destination. Because when you officially become a tourist destination you’re basically acting as a magnet for camera clad tourists:
I know, I know, I’m being a grinch. I used to love this crap back when I was a kid, but now I just kind of find the whole Christmas thing to be another chore I have to do. Here’s my major beefs with it:
- When people ask you “
What do you want for Christmas”my answer is always the same thing – “
I dunno.”Because I’m a grown ass man and if I need something I can buy it.
- If there’s something I’m in dire need of then I would’ve bought it by now. So basically you end up asking for something you don’t really want that badly because it specifically fits into a designated price range.
- Can’t we just exchange cash? That’s all we’re really doing. Buying each other shit we’ve already asked for ahead of time. There isn’t even an element of surprise anymore. Mrs. Turtleboy asks me what I want and I ask her what she wants. Then we buy it for each other and celebrate our love. But at the end of the day all we’ve done is spend money to get something we want for ourselves.
- Kids make Christmas a million times easier and enjoyable. Turtleboy Jr. is extremely simple to please. Anything with wheels is the greatest thing he’s ever seen.
The good news for Turtleboy is that this counted as a date, and a free one at that. Every married man knows how huge that is. Now when the inevitable question comes up – “
How come we never DO anything?” –I will be able to look back and fondly remember our pit stop on the way to Walmart. Anyway, I know there are lots of houses like this in towns all over Massachusetts. But does anyone do it bigger than these Leicester folk? If so, please don’t ever tell Mrs. Turtleboy.
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