Every July, I look forward to taping a Christmas show - in July

Host: The sun was brutal — a merciless, laughing orb hanging over Nashville, painting the air itself in waves of heat. The asphalt shimmered, the trees drooped, and the faint smell of barbecue smoke and guitar strings seemed to hang in the wind like nostalgia.

In the middle of this summer inferno stood a soundstage — enormous, air-conditioned, and utterly out of season. Through its doors, you could hear the faint echo of bells, laughter, and the unmistakable hum of fake snow machines.

Jack stood outside the stage, wearing a Santa suit that looked like it was made of molten regret. His grey eyes squinted against the sun, his beard fake, his patience real but fading.

Jeeny leaned against the catering truck, sipping an iced coffee, her hair pulled back, her eyes shining with that quiet, unshakable amusement that only true irony can inspire.

Jeeny: “Larry the Cable Guy once said, ‘Every July, I look forward to taping a Christmas show — in July in Nashville. In 98-degree weather. I love it.’”

Jack: (gritting his teeth) “Love it? I’m sweating like a roast pig under these lights, Jeeny. If this is love, I’d rather stay single.”

Host: A crew member walked by, dragging a roll of fake snow and humming Jingle Bell Rock. The contrast between the burning sun and the plastic winter was surreal — like watching irony sweat through a red velvet coat.

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack. You’ve got to admit — there’s something magical about it. Christmas in July. It’s absurd, but it makes people smile.”

Jack: “Magical? This is capitalism dressed in tinsel. It’s 98 degrees, and I’m dressed like Saint Nick for a network that’ll air this right between reruns and car commercials.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “You’re missing the point.”

Jack: “Oh, I see the point. The point is to sell cheer six months early.”

Jeeny: “No, the point is to feel it six months early. To remind people that joy doesn’t wait for a calendar.”

Host: A gust of hot air rolled past, scattering a few snowflakes made of shredded foam across the parking lot. They melted instantly, leaving faint traces of glitter on the asphalt.

Jack: “Joy doesn’t wait for a calendar — that’s poetic. But this isn’t joy, Jeeny. This is artificial snow, rented smiles, and a director yelling ‘More warmth!’ to a man dressed in wool under heat lamps.”

Jeeny: “You sound like Scrooge before the ghosts showed up.”

Jack: “Scrooge didn’t have heatstroke.”

Host: Jeeny laughed — the kind of laugh that broke through cynicism like sunlight through blinds. She stepped closer, her expression softening, her voice lowering into something reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s why I love it. The irony of it all. The fact that people are out here — in July — working their hearts out to make something that reminds others of kindness, of giving, of warmth. It’s ridiculous and beautiful at the same time.”

Jack: “Beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s effort. Because it’s faith in feeling. You don’t fake joy for a camera — you choose it, even in 98 degrees.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just pretend long enough to believe it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not pretending. That’s practice.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like the last note of a familiar song. Jack looked away toward the studio door, where crew members were now adjusting snow blowers and stringing lights over a mechanical reindeer.

Jack: “So what — this is humanity’s version of optimism? Melting in fake snow, pretending it’s winter, so we can remember how to be merry?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You think joy’s supposed to be convenient? No. It’s chosen, Jack. Every bit of it. Even in the wrong season.”

Jack: (smiling wryly) “You’d make a good preacher. A sweaty one, but good.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather be a believer.”

Host: The sound of Christmas carols floated out from the studio — muffled through walls, yet somehow bright. Jack listened, tapping his boot against the concrete in reluctant rhythm.

Jack: “You really believe this — that there’s value in all this pretense?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Look at them.” (gestures toward the crew) “People coming together to create something cheerful in the most uncomfortable conditions possible. That’s faith — not in religion, but in the power of joy itself.”

Jack: “You think joy is a kind of labor?”

Jeeny: “Always. Real joy takes effort — like love, or kindness. You can’t just feel it. You have to build it.”

Host: Her eyes caught the faint reflection of the snow machine lights, turning brown into something almost golden. Jack stared at her for a long moment, then sighed, half in defeat, half in wonder.

Jack: “So, what you’re saying is… joy is an architectural project. Built out of contradictions.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why it works. Cold snow, hot sun. Cynics and believers. Sweat and spirit. It’s all the same equation — balance through absurdity.”

Jack: “You sound like a Christmas philosopher.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “And you sound like the ghost of burnout past.”

Host: The director called out from the doorway, voice echoing through the heat: “Alright, Santa! We’re ready for you — cue the sleigh!”

Jack groaned, tugging at his fake beard.

Jack: “You know, Einstein said time is relative. But I think if he saw Christmas in July, he’d just call it madness.”

Jeeny: “Madness is fine, as long as it’s merry.”

Jack: “I hate how convincing you sound.”

Jeeny: “That’s because I’m right.”

Host: He gave her one last look — a look that carried all the resignation of logic and the quiet surrender of warmth — and walked toward the stage. The door swung open, and the blast of cold air from the studio hit him like a portal into another world.

Inside: snow, carols, laughter, and twinkling lights. Outside: sun, sweat, and the faint hum of cicadas.

Jeeny watched through the open door as he climbed into the sleigh prop, surrounded by fake elves and a forest of glittering plastic trees. His posture was reluctant at first — stiff, mechanical — but then, as the music swelled, something in him cracked. A small smile. A spark. The faintest shimmer of belief.

Host: The snow machine hissed to life, covering him in white dust as the cameras rolled. “Ho, ho, ho!” he shouted — the words booming awkwardly at first, then rich, honest, alive.

Jeeny clapped softly, whispering to herself.

Jeeny: “See? That’s the miracle of it. Joy doesn’t care about the weather.”

Host: The scene ended. The crew cheered. Jack pulled off his beard and laughed — a real, unguarded sound, free from the armor of irony.

Jeeny stepped into the studio, the air-conditioning washing over her like mercy.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Maybe I get it now. It’s not about pretending it’s winter. It’s about remembering warmth.”

Jeeny: “And finding it where you least expect it.”

Host: The lights dimmed. The snow settled. The heat outside still burned, but inside the stage, Christmas had arrived — fragile, fleeting, genuine.

As they walked out together into the blinding July sun, the fake snow still clinging to their hair, Jeeny looked up and smiled.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s what Larry meant. Love isn’t about comfort. It’s about showing up for joy — even when it’s ninety-eight degrees.”

Host: Jack chuckled, wiping sweat and snow from his brow.

Jack: “Then merry July, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “Merry July, Jack.”

Host: “And as the two stepped back into the heat, laughter lingering like the faint jingle of unseen bells, the city of Nashville — half burning, half glowing — seemed to hum with one truth: that joy, no matter how absurdly timed, is still joy — and the human heart, if it loves enough, can turn even summer into Christmas.”