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This may come off like another Festivus gripe, just an unpopular opinion about a pointless seasonal irritant. And it is, for sure, but bear with old Fezziwig.

Holiday inflatables have gotten out of hand. They're smooth, homogeneous and overexposed. When hyperactive homeowners barf up six pop culture franchises in a row, narrative arc becomes moot. Why is Baby Yoda standing beside a minion? Is the Tyrannosaurus rex with a family of elves archaeologically sound? The Grinch is with a green alien why? Because, green?

Inflatables represent a flattening of creativity and uphold the pervasive big-box monoculture. And you should definitely have them if that's what frosts your fruitcake, because we're all going to die one day and we have enough to fight about.

See? I was going to be testy about how corporatized the inflatables look covering every inch of this nation's lawns. But then I read "A Christmas Carol" for book club and thought I had better change my griping, scolding ways before some ghostie with a bony finger came around pointing at my grave hole.

Season's greetings, everyone! Get real ugly if that's what you want!

The Sinterklaas doing a hula while a motor blows air into his barrel legs is aberrant. The leviathan Snoopy should have never left the grounds of the cursed Home Depot that bore it. When they are deflated during the day, it's a mass hangover. They all forgot their credit cards at the bar.

Then again, Christmas decorations have never been the pinnacle of restraint. The season is rife with excess, a festive fugue state that puts an exclamation point on another year. This month celebrates the criminal mainlining of sugar, the unhinged jingling of bells. It's a time to mix silver and gold and pink glitter and red lumberjack print and holly sprigs and stars of wonder and haunted ice-skating teddy bears and boldly declare, "WHAT?"

And, right, children. The children! Sure, use your kids as an excuse to purchase an Olaf bigger than a great oak, a Jack Skellington holding a hairless wreath, an unholy nylon Peppa Pig. Uh-huh. It will be our little secret that adults are more interested in this gaudy seasonal milieu than their little ones.

In that spirit, let me enter into the record that I am the owner of the ugliest Christmas decoration known to man. It's one of those antique ceramic trees with small bulbs; in the center, a disembodied Santa head. I nabbed it from a friend on Buy Nothing because I found it disturbingly hilarious, so bad it's good. My family begs for it to disappear annually, yet I stand firm in my conviction that we must display this nightmare fuel.

When I consult the eyes of my demented Santa trapped for all eternity in a Tannenbaum, I know what he's thinking. He's plotting to activate the proletariat. He's pondering traumatizing a tween. He's wondering how early is too early to open wine. He keeps things saucy, giving the neighborhood inflatables something to talk about while they thirst for a soul inside all that commercially licensed polyester.

Happy holidays. Stay weird, everyone.

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Stephanie Hayes is a columnist at the Tampa Bay Times in Florida. Follow her at @stephhayes on X or @stephrhayes on Instagram.

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