Anyone who knows me knows that ever since my road test at seventeen, I have honed an unparalleled defensive driving tool. Namely, the marriage of honking and high beams, or, what I like to call, “thunder and lightning.” For the purposes of today, I will focus on the lightning part, even though the car horn, not the cello, should have been my chosen musical instrument way back when.
During the holiday season, harsh criticism is usually reserved for the nonstop carols polluting every public space. But songs are a fundamental part of the Christmas spirit. Do I need to hear Jingle Bell Rock seven times a day? Maybe not. However, my beef is with displays, not nativity ones, but specifically those with flashing lights. There is nothing illuminating about inducing a seizure. Though the frothing of the mouth can be reminiscent of an overflowing glass of eggnog. Flashing lights are meant to get someone’s attention during an emergency, help land a plane, or check for survivors buried in a collapsed mine shaft. But they should not be a part of Christmas.
You want lights? Get lights. Clean, stable, and non-flashing ones. The only acceptable flashing is if it’s solely the result of flickering candles. While this exponentially increases the risk of a house fire, at least it’s done so without putting any undue stress on the electrical grid. Not only that, flashing as a concept conjures up images of trench coats and nothing else. If I wanted to see something flashing, I would whittle away the workday staring at animated GIFs of Rudolph’s blinking schnozz.
I thought the appeal of flashing lights wax extinguished during the Saturday morning heyday of Dragon Ball Z and its epileptic legacy. Looks like I was wrong.
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