FIRE! FIRE! Uh, no... nevermind.

Not to sound like the love child of Ebenezer Scrooge and the Grinch, but there’s a lot about Christmas that sucks.  Roid-raging blue hairs knocking you into the next aisle for the last Tickle Me Elmo. Christmas carolers making you get up from the marathon edition of Hoarders. Vodka-soaked mall Santas. Yeah, they all bring the true meaning of Christmas to its yule-tide knees.

But nothing makes you yearn for December 26th more than a neighbor with a Christmas light fetish. They’re in every city. Every hamlet. Every town. That one neighbor who thinks that unless their house is visible from the friggin’ space station, they ain’t Christmas enough.

In Panama City, Florida, that neighbor is one Danielle Copeland. Danielle has adorned her humble abode with 16,000 twinkling lights. Sixteen thousand. That’s enough wattage to make Thomas Edison get hard.

Danielle has lights on every part of her home. The porch. The roof. The lawn. The crapper, probably.

And the neighbors are none too pleased with Danielle’s decorations. Besides risking permanent blindness every time they pull in the driveway, they have to deal with the bright sleepless nights and the giddy little news reporters clogging up the cul-de-sac and stomping all over the azalias to get a shot of the plastic Santa on the roof.

Sucks to be living next to the real-life Griswolds.