I own a great many properties across Dallas-Fort Worth, including a modest Highland Park residence with an adjoining guest house, stable and servant's quarters. During the Christmas season I adorn this abode in delightful seasonal decor; a display which inevitably becomes the talk of the Park and the unquestionable, awe-inspiring apex of Highland Park Village's horse-drawn carriage tours.

In past years I've collected scads of raves and accolades for my decorations, including "Most Lifelike Animatronic Snowman," "Loudest Santa" and "The Scorched Retina Award for Excessive Lighting."

Unfortunately there were some unforeseen delays in raising my highly esteemed holiday display this year. My initial setup – a gargantuan robot Baby Jesus delivering a roundhouse kick to a papier-mâché Mahmoud Ahmadinejad – generated countless complaints and citations from town residents and various activist groups. I guess some people have forgotten the true reason for the season. This was strike one.

In lieu of my original design, I then planned to employ a few dozen little people to dress up as North Pole elves and scurry across my lawn, re-creating manic musical numbers and kinetic scenes from that instant holiday classic Fred Claus. Have you seen this film? It was a 21-fun salute, filled with family-friendly frivolity. And the performances were absolutely divine. Is there nothing that Vince Vaughn can't do, outside of delivering a theatrical performance that is not coated in smarminess?

My plans to re-enact scenes from Fred Claus were almost immediately thwarted when I had difficulty procuring a significant number of actors with the required attributes of diminutive stature. Apparently this is their busy season, and they would rather work in a well-heated shopping mall or elementary school gymnasium than trounce about my meticulously landscaped yard for hours on end.

Also, I was sued by the Union of Little People Thespians for punching one of their charter members in the neck. I shan't go into detail, but needless to say, strike two.

I was finally able to craft a decorative Christmas display that was surprisingly affordable and seasonally reverent without infracting on any existing town bylaws, trampling my neighborhood's general consensus of good taste or violently assaulting a 47-year-old man who is the size of a second-grader.

I cast my house and groundskeepers in a glorious living nativity on my front lawn. My gardener will play Joseph, my housekeeper will play Mary, and the three wise men will be portrayed by the guys who reshingled my roof over the summer. As for the Baby Jesus, He will be played by the housekeeper's newborn nephew, whose name just happens to be Jesus. Christmas miracle? Me thinks so.

Now if you'll excuse me, I must attend to a matter that requires my immediate attention. These mistletoe sprigs are not going to fashion themselves to my belt buckles.

Alibaster K. Abthernabther welcomes your comments, which he will translate into Norwegian, then back into English, back into Norwegian and then back into English again before discarding them forever. E-mail him at alibaster.k.abthernabther @gmail.com.

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