The Glow Before the Storm Every year, Grandpa’s house was the house. The one with lights so bright they’d make Clark Griswold jealous. Strings of rainbow bulbs wrapped around every palm tree. Candy canes lined the driveway. The whole place looked like Santa’s Florida vacation home.
“This year’s the big one,” Grandpa said, gripping his staple gun like a weapon of destiny. “People will see it from space.”
And he wasn’t kidding. It took him three full days, four extension cords, and a case of soda to complete the masterpiece. When the switch flipped, the house lit up like the sun. Neighbors gathered on the sidewalk, oohing and aahing. “It’s beautiful, Dad,” said his daughter.
But lurking in the shadows, unseen to all, were a few unexpected guests: Florida’s unofficial Christmas critters—iguanas.
Invasion of the Iguanas The thing about iguanas is they’re opportunists. If it looks like food, they’ll try it. Bright, colorful, wiggly Christmas lights? To an iguana’s primitive brain, that’s basically an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Late that night, while Grandpa’s house shined brighter than a Vegas casino, the iguanas made their move. Slowly, they crawled from the neighbor’s hedge, their little claws clicking on the pavement like tiny invaders from another world.
The first iguana—a hefty, scaly beast with the confidence of a middle-schooler in new sneakers—spotted a green light. He tilted his head, sniffed, then CHOMP! The bulb shattered in his mouth like a candy-coated jawbreaker.
Did he stop? Nope. He went for another. And another. Soon, it was an all-out feast.
Battle of the Bulbs The next morning, Grandpa’s driveway looked like a crime scene. Green and red light bulbs lay shattered on the ground. Wires dangled from the palm trees like spaghetti.
“What the…?” Grandpa squinted, stepping over a broken candy cane. Then he spotted them—two iguanas sunbathing on the driveway, bellies full, basking in the warm glow of victory.
“Oh, you’ve GOT to be kidding me,” he muttered, grabbing his broom. He charged at them like a knight with a lance, but the iguanas scattered, tails whipping behind them as they darted for cover.
He called his daughter. “They ate my lights!” he yelled into the phone.
“Who ate your lights?” she asked.
“The lizards! The big ones!”
“Dad, those are iguanas. They’re not supposed to eat lights.”
“Well, somebody forgot to tell them that!” he barked.
The Great Iguana Defense Plan Grandpa wasn’t one to admit defeat. "If they want war, they’re getting war," he declared. He armed himself with a bag of mothballs, citrus spray, and a roll of aluminum foil.
“They hate the smell of citrus,” he explained to his granddaughter as they lined the base of the palm trees with lemon peels. “They’ll think twice before coming back.”
By nightfall, the house was fortified like Fort Knox. The mothballs were scattered. Citrus spray coated every bulb. Tin foil glinted like a disco ball.
“Let’s see them try it now,” Grandpa said, crossing his arms proudly.
But Florida’s iguanas aren’t just survivors—they’re schemers. As the sun went down, Grandpa’s lights flickered on. The house shined, his defenses glittered, and somewhere in the distance, a faint rustling could be heard.
The Return of the Reptiles At 2:13 a.m., the motion-activated camera on Grandpa’s front porch buzzed his phone. “Movement detected,” it said. He swiped to see the footage. Two iguanas. Staring at his house. Plotting.
“Not tonight, fellas,” Grandpa muttered, slipping on his slippers. He peered out the window, broom in hand. The iguanas were circling like sharks. They sniffed the citrus peels, wrinkled their noses, and then—to his absolute horror—climbed over the foil.
“THEY LEARNED,” he gasped.
Back on the phone with his daughter, he said, “They’re smarter than me.”
“You’re dealing with prehistoric brains, Dad,” she laughed. “You can’t win this one.”
He sat in his recliner, broom in hand, muttering to himself. “They can have the lights. I’ll win next year.”
A New Tradition The next morning, Grandpa’s lights were a wreck. Broken bulbs. Chewed wires. It looked like a Florida hurricane had rolled through his lawn. Neighbors stopped by, shaking their heads in sympathy.
“Did the iguanas win?” asked the man across the street.
Grandpa sighed. “They always do.”
But he wasn’t done. By Christmas Eve, a new display stood in the yard. No lights this time. Instead, there was a giant inflatable iguana wearing a Santa hat and a sign that read, “THEY WIN THIS YEAR.”
Tourists stopped to take pictures. Kids laughed. His daughter’s Facebook post went viral: “When you can’t beat the iguanas, join them.” The comments rolled in:
- “Legendary.”
- “This man deserves a medal.”
- “The lizards will demand royalties.”
By the end of the week, Grandpa’s inflatable iguana had its own social media page with thousands of followers.
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