I like indoor Christmas trees. And I like people who decorate

Host: The snow fell in slow, lazy spirals, catching the orange glow of streetlights like embers in air. The suburban street was alive with color—blinking reds, greens, and goldens, flashing across lawns and rooftops. A plastic Santa wobbled in the wind beside an inflatable reindeer that sagged, half-deflated, like a fallen soldier of holiday cheer.

Jack leaned against the hood of his car, his breath a visible cloud in the cold air, a coffee cup warming his hands. Jeeny stood beside him, wrapped in a long wool coat, her cheeks flushed by the chill and the glow of twinkling lights.

It was the kind of night that smelled of pine, cinnamon, and exhaust fumes — the modern scent of Christmas in a city that never quite slept, only paused long enough to pretend.

Jeeny: “You know what Lewis Black said once? ‘I like indoor Christmas trees. And I like people who decorate their homes with lights and all that crap. I think it's a healthy outlet for them. If they weren't covering their lawns with twinkling lights, they'd be doing something that was really, really creepy.’”

Jack: “Yeah,” he smirked, watching a neighbor climb a ladder, adjusting a string of lights. “He’s got a point. You’ve got to wonder what kind of darkness people are hiding under all that glitter.”

Host: A car passed, its headlights casting a moving glare across their faces — two silhouettes against a winter sky thick with snow and electric color.

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not hiding anything, Jack. Maybe they just need to believe in something bright — even if it’s just twinkling lights and plastic reindeer.”

Jack: “Or maybe they just need to distract themselves. You ever notice how the louder people decorate, the quieter their lives usually are? Like they’re screaming joy into a void.”

Jeeny: “That’s a little cynical, even for you.”

Jack: “It’s not cynicism, it’s pattern recognition. Look around — half these houses have divorces, debts, arguments brewing behind the curtains. But out here?” He gestured toward a glowing snowman. “Out here, it’s all peace on Earth.”

Host: The wind rattled a string of bells on a doorway, their metallic chime a fragile reminder of ritual and repetition. The street glimmered, but beneath it, a quiet sadness lingered — the sadness of humans trying to cover the dark with light.

Jeeny: “You make it sound like joy is a lie, Jack. But what if it’s the only truth we’ve got left? Maybe we need the lies — the colored bulbs, the fake snow, the tinsel — to survive the real world.”

Jack: “You mean escape it.”

Jeeny: “No, I mean transform it. You think these people are just avoiding their pain — I think they’re repainting it. Turning loneliness into color, routine into ritual. It’s alchemy, Jack — human alchemy.”

Host: The snow thickened, falling in gentle silence. Children’s laughter echoed from a yard, where a snowball fight had begun, their voices sharp, pure, alive.

Jack: “Alchemy? Please. That’s just consumerism in a Santa suit. The corporations have sold us this holiday like it’s a drug. Buy your lights, your tree, your temporary happiness — and forget how empty the rest of the year feels.”

Jeeny: “So what? Even if it’s manufactured, it still means something to the people who live it. You think a child cares where the lights were made? They just see magic.”

Jack: “Magic is dangerous, Jeeny. It blinds people. It makes them content with illusions.”

Jeeny: “Maybe some illusions are necessary. Look at history — people have always needed rituals to stay sane. The Romans had Saturnalia, the Celts had Yule, even the darkest winters had fires to pretend the sun was still watching. Christmas lights are just our modern torches against the dark.”

Host: The streetlights flickered, the power grid strained under the holiday excess. A brief blackout swept through — all the houses fell dark, silent, bare. For a moment, the night revealed its true color — black, infinite, and honest.

Jack: “See that? That’s the truth. All this light, and it only takes one second for the darkness to win.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s a reminder that the light is a choice. They’ll turn it back on in a minute. Because we choose it, Jack — over and over again.”

Host: And she was right. Within seconds, the neighborhood bloomed again — colors returning, reflections dancing on snow. The houses seemed to breathe, alive once more.

Jack: “You think it’s choice. I think it’s fear. People can’t stand the silence. They fill it with lights, songs, noise. It’s easier than facing the void.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly what makes it beautiful. That we know the void’s there, and we shine anyway.”

Host: The sound of a choir drifted from a church at the corner, the voices muffled by distance but carrying that strange mix of faith and melancholy only winter hymns seem to hold.

Jeeny: “I think Lewis Black’s right, you know. Without these lights, some people might break. The world’s too heavy not to have a holiday where you can pretend it’s light again.”

Jack: “You’re saying the tinsel keeps us human?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it proves we’re still trying. Still reaching for beauty, even when it’s plastic.”

Host: Jack looked at the rows of houses, the lights twinkling like a heartbeat against the frozen air. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, his voice softened, almost regretful.

Jack: “You know… maybe you’re right. Maybe this is therapy for the species. The wires, the bulbs, the garland — it’s how we convince ourselves we’re still alive. If they weren’t doing this, they’d be screaming into the void.”

Jeeny: “Or worse,” she smiled, her breath fogging the air, “they’d be posting about it.”

Host: They both laughed, their voices mingling with the distant carols and the crackling hum of lights. The snow kept falling, soft, steady, endless, like the unspoken wish that the light — however artificial — might somehow last.

Jack: “You ever wonder, Jeeny, if we put up lights not to see, but to be seen?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s all anyone wants, Jack. To shine long enough for someone to notice before the dark comes back.”

Host: The camera would pan back now — street after street, roof after roof, the world a constellation of tiny hearts, flickering, fragile, beautifully defiant.

And as the night deepened, the snow fell, covering every imperfection in a blanket of forgiveness, reflecting every light that dared to glow.

For in that fragile defiance, Lewis Black’s comedy had become truth — madness and meaning dancing under the same string of bulbs, each one flickering against the infinite dark, saying:

We’re still here. We’re still shining.