Not to be a Scrooge, but ...
by Todd Foltz

Back in my college philosophy classes, one of the biggest arguments against the existence of an omnipotent, benevolent Christian god was the problem of evil. The idea was that a good God who was all-powerful would never allow evil to exist. Of course, God's apologists countered with the importance of self-determination.

Now far be it from me to have the final answer to that debate. But it strikes me that a similar question could be applied to the existence of Santa Claus. That question, of course, would be this: If the jolly, old, fat man who stands for the giving of happiness and pleasure truly exists, then why does He allow so many people to destroy the property values of our neighborhoods with such garish holiday decorations?

Forgive my question, please. I've come down with that dreaded seasonal disorder known as Grinchicus Scroogilitis, and it's all my roommate's fault.

Now, I've seen just about every version of Charles Dickens' classic tale imaginable, but no Scrooge ever out-Scrooged my roommate. He's been grousing since the day after Thanksgiving about Christmas even though the shopping season has helped the record store we own veer close to the neck of the woods known as Prosperity. The man's about as jolly as an elf who's sat on the pointy end of a top.

It seems merry ole' Chip hates Christmas lights. HATES them. As if every little twinkle of every little colored light is an incandescent bird flipped at him by all the happy people of the world. He and I were driving to see the latest Star Trek movie (yes, Mr. Happy is a Trekkie) when he pronounced, "December 5th is far too early to put up stupid Christmas lights."

I looked at him like he had mistletoe on his butt (no classic tail, that!). After all, most normal humans where I'm from put up their lights the day after Thanksgiving.

"So, Mr. Scrooge," I asked, "when do you think the lights should go up?"

"Certainly not before the evening of December 20th," he replied with all the dignity of a dork walking out of the bathroom with toilet paper trailing from his foot. "And to be honest, trees shouldn't really be put up till Christmas Eve."

Ah, now there's a man who knows the benefit of foreplay.

Unfortunately, part of his feelings are rubbing off on me, I fear. Well, not about foreplay, of course ­ I enjoy those three minutes every bit as much as the next guy ­ but about holiday decorations.

This is my first Christmas season in Florida, and I find that the more I see Christmas lights strung in palm trees, the more I want to string up the dork who hung them there. And now that I've had the joy of driving past decorated houses with the Grinch himself, I've begun to realize how horribly tasteless those decoration-loving ya-Whos are, be they in Whoville or St. Petersburg, Fla.

By now everyone's heard the liberals' lament that it's a tragedy that people need a license to drive but not to reproduce. But those people are missing the point entirely. It's holiday decorating that truly begs federal regulation. After all, stupid parents often spawn smart kids, but nothing good ever comes from bad Christmas decorators. All you end up with is lawn art that blinks instead of spinning in the wind.

Having spent most of my life in Missouri, I thought I had experienced the worst culture this fine country has to offer. But I was wrong. Florida, it seems, isn't just the place where the old come to die; it's the place where the old and TASTELESS come to die.

I have never seen such a mangy collection of hideous decorating jobs. Honestly, these homes are like a 20th century version of Frankenstein's monster: They glow in the dark, bristle with the sound of electricity and frighten small children and adults alike. These artistic monsters are created by the same people who forced 7-11 to stop carrying Playboy. When Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart said he couldn't define pornography but knew it when he saw it obviously hadn't visited Florida at Christmas.

Otherwise he would have had his definition: St. Petersburg.

At night, St. Petersburg must remind passing pilots of a teen-ager who can't afford Clearasil. From the ground, the city seems like the puking grounds for giants who ate too many Jelly Bellys.

But it shouldn't have to. All this ugliness could be prevented if we just had a state law that required, say, three hours of night school prior to any decorating. Florida requires proof of insurance before you can get your drivers license, so why not proof of taste?

Then, one day, we could have scenes like this:

CUSTOMER: I would like to buy a string of blinking lights shaped like hot dogs, hamburgers and pizza slices with Santa hats and a compact disc of dogs tooting "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" with their butts.

CLERK: Do you have proof that you graduated from sixth grade art class? No? Then I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave the store.

Unfortunately, that day may be. And if Florida is any indication, humankind may never evolve that far. So before you ask that question, Virginia, take a look around you.

Todd Foltz is still kinda bitter about not having any cash to score presents for his friends.

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