If, in the next four days, a Boeing 737 crashes through my roof, killing me while I brush my teeth in my ugly goldenrod-colored bathroom (dismaying yes, but I always knew I'd die surrounded by a terrible shade of yellow), don't chalk it up to chance.  It will be the direct result of one of the following (in case you choose to sue for emotional distress):

1. My neighbor has fabricated a holiday landing strip in his front yard.  So bright and so blinky.  Impressive in its ability to both drain the local power grid and misdirect planes.

2. God is smiting me for laughing while Sloane barked at the baby Jesus figurine in said neighbor's illuminated and inflated nativity scene.