i ain’t like old st. nick; he don’t come but once a year

Okay, Internet. I get it.

Despite my pleas to whatever shred of decency I thought you may have once possessed, you’ve proven yourself far too attached to crappy inflatable lawn decorations to abandon horrible taste. Undeterred by the whispers of “abomination” you assuredly hear around the neighborhood (convinced they’re actually complimenting your ten-foot Frosty), I’ve noticed you’ve even upped your inflatable game with animation.

And while my instinct is to point out that inflatable Rudolph helping inflatable Santa out of the chimney is most likely a result of your subconscious expressing not only your ineptitude at decorating but also your serious need for help, I know that sort of talk will sail right over your NASCAR capped head.

So being chock-full of compassion as I am by my own description, I’ve decided to try seeing things from your perspective. And you know what? After a half can of snuff and a four pack of wine coolers, I think we’re on the same page.

There is something slightly, how should I put it, erotic about them. Right? Right? Right.

So have at it.