Every neighborhood has a Doug.
That one neighbor who turns everything into a competition you didn’t ask to join—best lawn, biggest barbecue, loudest fireworks.
The first year Eric and I moved in, ‘Doug’ put up a mismatched string of blinking lights and a blow-up Santa that leaned so far to one side it looked like it was trying to escape.
By New Year’s, the whole setup had deflated into the snow. Doug blamed the wind.
The next year, I started decorating our house.
I kept it simple but elegant: white icicle lights along the roof, a few illuminated reindeer in the yard, and a glowing wreath on the door.
Neighbors complimented me on it, but Doug? He sulked.
“Trying to show me up?” he joked the first time he saw it.
I thought he was kidding. I didn’t realize he’d make it his mission to win some imaginary holiday crown.
By this year, I’d refined my display. Subtle but cheerful, it reflected the joy I felt for the season.
And that’s when Doug took things to a new level—escalating our one-sided rivalry into a full-blown battle.
Let There Be Light
The first complaint came just after Thanksgiving.
I was outside adjusting the icicle lights on my porch when Doug appeared on the sidewalk, arms crossed and lips pursed.
“Tina,” he called out, “you’re gonna blind the whole neighborhood with those lights.”
I turned, surprised. “It’s just icicles, Doug. They’re LEDs. Low wattage.”
“Well, they’re a bit… much,” he said, waving vaguely toward my house. “I mean, we’re not running a theme park here.”
I stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or argue. Doug had never been shy about sharing his opinions, but this was a new level of petty.
“They’re just holiday decorations,” I said finally, keeping my tone polite. “You’ve put up lights before.”
“Yeah, but I don’t go overboard,” he shot back. “People like subtlety, Tina. You should try it.”
I watched him stomp back to his driveway, muttering under his breath, and rolled my eyes.
Subtlety wasn’t exactly Doug’s forte. This was the same man who once turned his front yard into a DIY tiki bar, complete with flaming torches and a hand-painted sign that read “Aloha, Neighbors!”
Later that evening, I noticed Doug standing on his porch, measuring his gutters with a tape measure.
I called Eric over. “What do you think he’s up to?” I asked.
Eric peered out the window, smirking. “Looks like he’s planning his counterattack.”
The next morning, Doug unveiled his masterpiece.
It was a mess.
A flashing Rudolph, blinking snowflakes, and a pair of inflatables so big they leaned precariously toward his neighbor’s yard. Loudspeakers blasted Jingle Bell Rock on repeat.
As I stood on my porch, sipping coffee, Eric joined me, shaking his head.
“Think he’s compensating for something?” he asked with a smirk.
“Probably creativity,” I muttered.
The kicker was the giant inflatable Santa he set up right on the property line. It leaned just enough to obscure my carefully arranged wreath and garland.
Subtle? Not Doug’s style.
Battle of the Bulbs
As Doug’s display grew more elaborate, the neighborhood buzzed with opinions.
Some found his antics amusing, while others quietly complained about the noise and light pollution.
The Johnson’s next door stopped hosting their nightly fire pit gatherings because they couldn’t hear each other over Doug’s speakers.
Mrs. Clarke, who always put out a tasteful string of white lights, muttered about “tacky nonsense” every time she passed his house.
But Doug was basking in the attention. He added more decorations every few days—another inflatable here, a new string of blinking lights there.
One afternoon, I came home to find him installing a motorized Santa sleigh on his roof. It wobbled so much I thought it might slide off.
“Quite the project,” I called up to him, unable to resist. “Trying to light up the whole city?”
“Just making sure my house gets noticed,” he replied with a grin. “Wouldn’t want anyone stealing my ideas again.”
I felt my jaw tighten. Eric had warned me not to engage, but Doug was impossible to ignore.
Every time I thought he’d reached peak absurdity, he found a new way to escalate. I documented it all with my phone, partly out of frustration and partly because it was so over-the-top it felt like a parody.
Meanwhile, I decided to tweak my own display.
I wasn’t about to compete with Doug’s carnival of chaos, but I wanted my decorations to stand out in their own way.
I replaced some of my older lights with solar-powered LEDs, added a few subtle but elegant touches, and swapped my bright wreath for a minimalist one with natural greenery.
“You’re going green?” Eric asked as he helped me hang new lights on the tree in the front yard.
“Going smart,” I corrected. “Doug can have the spotlight. I’ll settle for being the classy one.”
It worked. A few neighbors stopped by to compliment my display, quietly remarking on how nice it was to see something tasteful amid all the flashing and noise.
Doug noticed, of course, and promptly added a giant polar bear to his lineup. It didn’t matter. I wasn’t playing his game anymore.
Lights Out
By the time the neighborhood holiday event rolled around, Doug’s display had taken on a life of its own.
It wasn’t just the motorized sleigh, the 20-foot inflatable polar bear, or the synchronized music that blared on a loop.
No, Doug had added strobes—actual strobe lights—and something resembling a fog machine, which spilled a vaguely peppermint-scented mist into the street.
The entire block now looked less like a festive cul-de-sac and more like the parking lot of a 1980s rock concert.
“He’s going to set something on fire,” Eric muttered as we walked past Doug’s house on our way to the potluck.
“Or give someone a seizure,” I replied, shaking my head.
The event was supposed to be a celebration of holiday cheer. Carolers sang by the community tree, kids ran around clutching candy canes, and everyone brought their best dishes to share.
There was even a competition for the best-decorated house, something the organizers called “friendly fun.”
Doug, naturally, saw it as a battle he had to win.
“Wait until you see what I’ve got in store tonight,” Doug boasted to a group of neighbors near the dessert table. “They’ll be talking about this one for years.”
I exchanged a glance with Eric. Whatever Doug had planned, it wasn’t going to be subtle.
That evening, as the crowd gathered in the street for the official judging, Doug flipped the switch on his magnum opus.
Lights blinked and flashed in every imaginable color, Rudolph’s nose glowed brighter than a searchlight, and the sleigh zipped back and forth on its rickety track.
Then came the music—a booming, bass-heavy remix of Deck the Halls that drowned out every other sound.
The crowd gasped, then laughed, then murmured. It was impressive in a way, I supposed, if you liked chaos.
But then it happened.
Halfway through the song, just as Doug’s polar bear began to wobble ominously, the entire block went dark. The strobes flickered one last time before fizzling out, leaving only the faint glow of distant streetlights.
A collective groan rippled through the crowd.
“Is it the whole neighborhood?” someone asked, their voice tinged with annoyance.
“It’s the grid,” Eric said quietly. “Doug overloaded it.”
Doug, meanwhile, was frantically fiddling with extension cords and breakers, muttering about “technical difficulties.”
But it was clear to everyone what had happened. His display had drained so much power it had tripped the entire system, leaving the block in literal darkness.
“This is ridiculous,” Mrs. Clarke said, folding her arms. “All this nonsense for some blinking lights?”
The crowd began to disperse, grumbling about ruined dinners, cold potluck dishes, and darkened homes.
Doug stood alone in his yard, his inflatables deflated around him like the remnants of a bad dream.
The Grinch Who Blacked Out Christmas
The morning after the blackout, Doug’s house looked like the aftermath of a failed circus act.
His inflatables were deflated, his lights were tangled in a heap, and his motorized sleigh leaned precariously on the edge of the roof.
It was eerily quiet, except for the occasional muttered complaint from passing neighbors.
As I stepped out to grab the morning paper, Mrs. Clarke walked by with her dog.
“Good riddance,” she said, gesturing toward Doug’s yard. “That man has no sense of moderation.”
By mid-morning, the neighborhood buzzed with stories about the blackout.
No one blamed the power company—it was obvious that Doug’s over-the-top display had overloaded the grid. People shared their frustrations openly, and Doug became the target of countless jokes.
“If he was trying to make us forget about his terrible barbecue last summer, mission accomplished,” Mr. Johnson quipped to Eric.
The local news did cover the incident, but it wasn’t sensationalized. A short segment on the blackout aired that evening, and while it didn’t name Doug directly, the footage of his over-the-top decorations made it clear who was responsible.
“And here,” the reporter said, “is an example of how holiday cheer can sometimes go a little too far.”
The segment also highlighted a few other homes in the neighborhood, contrasting Doug’s display with others that were more restrained.
I wasn’t expecting to see my house featured, but as the camera panned across the block, there it was: my solar-powered lights glowing softly in the background.
One neighbor, interviewed briefly, remarked, “Tina’s decorations always have a touch of class. It’s nice to see something thoughtful instead of overwhelming.”
I couldn’t help but smile as Eric teased, “Looks like someone’s display stole the show after all.”