Classic moment in my marriage last night — the wife and I were out shopping for a new dog house because my dogs apparently destroyed their old one in a rage because I didn’t let them in the garage during the recent rain (my son is still a suspect also). My White German Shepard once munched on the golf cart seat during a storm, so the garage is off limits to those beasts. While at the store, we walked passed the Christmas decorations. As most of you know, I tend to go a little overboard decorating my yard, but this year my wife put her foot down and said that I can’t buy any more items. The boner I pulled at breakfast last weekend didn’t go over too well; I meant to say, “Honey, please pass the syrup” but instead said, “You are a fascist Nazi who hates Christmas.” Upon reflection (I do a great deal of that), she is right — I have stuff I don’t even bother to unpack anymore, so I have not purchased anything to jazz up this year’s display.
However, at the store, we saw an inflatable Santa in an outhouse. My first thought was whoever the sick bastard that thought that up had me in mind. I was gazing lovingly at this new work of art, but my thought were interrupted by a soft whimper from my wife. We made eye contact, and I realized I’d be taking home Santa in The Shitter. “Get it,” she said calmly, but you have to promise me that you won’t have Sponge Bob tipping it over.”
I assured her I had much bigger plans than that. This will be a watershed moment as Santa in the Shitter is a game changer. My first instinct is a minimalist approach—just Santa enjoying a serene squat in the woods with a few deer around. The neighbors and the gawkers would be stunned at the simplicity. However, I just have too many weapons in my arsenal. My second thought was to put Frankenstein in a Ben Roethisbeger jersey and place him under the outhouse because nothing says Christmas like Santa dumping on Pittsburgh.
On my way home from a little golf today, I had a thought of including the golf cart in the Display. Imagine Sponge Bob and Frosty in the golf cart, blitzed on egg nog and caramel vodka shots, bearing down on Santa in the Shitter. Frosty has a nine iron in is fat hands, ready to smack Santa because he and Sponge Bob are tired of Jolly St. Nick stealing their thunder around the Holidays. Imagine Snoopy in the Sopwith Camel swooping down to save Santa with a deadly, precise strafing run that would make the boys at Baseball Prospectus green with envy.
I don’t have the correct song for this yet, nor am I sure this is the best use of the Santa in the Shitter. The local MADD contingent would be pissed, and drunk driving is no laughing matter. I suppose I could lose the booze and just portray Sponge Bob and Frosty as sociopaths.
Sigh, I have so much more planning to do — and a soundtrack to compile.