|We may not have thought this thing through.|
Listen, Sharon, we have to talk. (No, not about that. Dr. Svoboda prescribed me an ointment for that. It's clearing up.)
It's about the nativity scene. Yes, the life-size, living nativity scene we currently have set up in our front yard. What other nativity scene would I be talking about, Sharon?
Look, I appreciate your enthusiasm for the holidays. I understand that this time of year means a lot to you. I like that you're passionate about things. It's the reason why I eventually agreed to marry you.
But the nativity scene, it's too much. Like, in a lot of ways. Money, for one thing. Do you know what it costs to hire 15 actors to stand in your front yard all day, every day, recreating the miraculous birth of our lord and savior Jesus Christ for 24 consecutive days? A lot.
Granted, I got the cheapest people I could find, but it still adds up. Quickly. By the way, if there's ever an ICE raid of this place, I'm pretty sure we're going to lose at least one shepherd and two of the Wise Men. So that's another thing to think about.
There are a lot of logistics involved here. Insurance, for instance. Do you know how long I had to talk with our State Farm guy about this, Sharon? That was not a pleasant conversation. And then there's that extremely janky space heater I had to install -- dangerously close to the straw, I might add. Plus the port-a-johns. It kind of detracts from the beauty and solemnity of the tableau when there's a row of outdoor shitters right next to it. It looks like a Blues Traveler concert out there. The neighbors are really starting to complain about the smell.
And that's not all they're complaining about, Sharon. Now, admittedly, I don't have much experience with showbiz people. I peed my pants during my third grade play, and I haven't set foot on a stage since then. But these actors, they live by a whole other set of values. Again, it kind of undermines the meaning of the nativity scene when Mary is constantly making out with Balthazar while Joseph watches intently.
Even the little guy they have playing Jesus, I don't know what you call them -- dwarfs or little people or vertically challenged or whatever the hell. I mean, I get that we can't use a real baby, even though the Angel Gabriel volunteered his nephew. But couldn't we at least have gotten someone more wholesome? All that guy does is vape and call his parole officer. Plus, when I go out to get the mail, he spits at me. I tell you, Sharon, I'm afraid of Baby Jesus.
We haven't even talked about the animals! That's a whole other pile of shit -- literally and figuratively. I don't know what sheep and camels eat, Sharon. No idea! I'm a database administrator, not a veterinarian. I've mainly been feeding them uncooked ramen and your old crafting projects. I don't know if that's what's making them so mean, but they're getting worse by the day. Gaspar won't go near them. That poor man is scared to death. One of the sheep broke out and bit Mrs. Klosterman two doors down. And I swear the camel called me "fresh meat" at least once.
I think it's time we faced some hard truths, Sharon. What started as a sincere display of pure Christian love has degenerated into a combination of a homeless shanty town and the world's worst petting zoo. The used needles, the loud music, the meth addicts humping on the hood of my Acura -- it's gotta stop.
Frankly, I don't see an easy way out at this point. It was definitely a bad sign when Melchior had his entire family move in. I probably should have shut the whole thing down then. But now, I think we've waited too long. This thing has gotten too out of control. It cannot be reined in.
Here's my plan: we cash out what's left of our savings account, abandon the house, and move away. Far away. Forever.
I hear Bethlehem's nice this time of year.