My wife is a wonderful, beautiful, amazing woman, who unfortunately has absolutely abysmal taste in Christmas decorations. I come from a long line of colored-bulbs-along-the-eaves people, but Joanne isn’t satisfied unless we’re regularly blowing fuses. Over the years, we’ve moved from eave-bulbs and shrub-bulbs and little illuminated snowmen to eve-bulbs and shrub-bulbs and little illuminated snowmen and big illuminated snowmen and animated illuminated deer and fake illuminated trees and, God help me, a little illuminated igloo with two little illuminated penguins. One of which is wearing a Santa hat. This, of course, doesn’t say “Merry Christmas” so much as “We shop at Wal-Mart.”

But she’s my wonderful, beautiful, amazing wife and so the front law looks like the only thing it’s missing is a rusted out Chevy on blocks. And there things stood, festive and/or tacky as hell, until last year.

Last year, on the night of New Years Eve, someone took all these various lawn sculptures and wireframe simulacra, and, um, arranged them. In sexual positions. Or as close as you can get given how limber most of them are.

The deer were engaged with the snowmen and the snowmen were engaged right back with the deer. The penguins were engaged with each other. The trees and the igloo, thankfully, sat out.

2007 began with my front lawn covered in illuminated perversion. Which made me indescribably happy.

I’ve become enough of an old man that the teenagers who normally barrel up and down our street in their tricked out Scions, blaring their new-fangled music, inevitably earn a fist-shake and a “Why, in my day…” from me. But, on New Years Day, they and their tiny one-track beer-soaked minds, gave me a gift. A beautiful gift that I have cherished since.

And last night, as I hauled the snowmen out of the garage for another go-round, I could only hope that they heard my thank-you. And that they do it again.