No, this is not about chickens with a typo.
I ran into a fella I hadn’t seen as I was coming out of Barnes and Noble, who seemed initially, very happy to see me.
After a pleasantry or two, he says, “I can’t believe you still spend all that money on fuckin’ Christmas cards.”
A direct quote.
I don’t need to tell you he doesn’t send them.
I keep my Connecticut intact admitting, yes I do, guilty as charged, and they’re beautiful to boot, as he knows, being a recipient.
None of these, just had it layin’ around so I’ll force myself to use a stamp, cards for me. To defend it further, it’s a lovely, traditional practice I wish was still in common play.
After I tip-toe around his snark remark, he asks, why I’m in Barnes and Noble so early.
I pause, knowing if I tell him, he’ll lose his mind, but my inner prankster says, play with his parsimony why don’t you Susannah, take Fred Mertz out for a ride.
“Since you’ve asked, I just bought my Christmas cards for next year, half price.”
What a photo-op sadly missed when he says, “That’s a joke, right?”
I pull out three boxes…Santa, angels, and a polar bear ice skating.
He looks as though he was hit over the head. I smile my best, I like ya, even if you can be a bit of an asshole smile, kissing him, French style, on both cheeks.
Take good care Fred.
No I didn’t say that, and just to annoy him, he’ll get a card, maybe even two, next year.
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