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When pigs fly

Thirty minutes. That's how long we spent wandering up and down just one single aisle at Lowes today. Was that single aisle the row of lumber that had drawn us to the store initially? Or a collection of things we actually need, like, oh, a water softener, or maybe a new bathroom faucet? No, the aisle that held us captive for so disgustingly long a time was the corridor of glittering seasonal animatronics; a hallway confused with motion and sizzling with electricity; an arena of robotic toys and decorations competing to grab the attentions of unsuspecting hardware shoppers with increasingly gaudy splendor. We don't do Christmas before Thanksgiving! I refuse. (Can you hear the futility of my objections being drowned out by the constant noise of train wheels, singing snowmen, dancing trees, and squeaking joints on mobile blow-up frippery? Futile, I tell you.)

The trains are what made us stop in the first place. That and the top shelf of blow-up yard decor, purposefully visible from nearly anywhere in the store.

You can take Christmas home early with miniature after miniature of toy stores, car dealerships, or Elvis.

Nothing says Christmas like Elvis, apparently, be it at the drive-in, or at Graceland. You can now be the proud of owner of both, in miniature.

You ain't nothing but a hound dog with a cheap plastic guitar.

And for those of you who, like me, swore that you'd celebrate Christmas before Thanksgiving on the day that pigs fly, for a cool $58 you can now join the ranks of early celebrators with a clear conscience.

Here's hoping you survive the elongated season. As far as I'm concerned, the pig can have his wings, I'm still keeping Christmas at bay until after we've had our turkey.

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