FIVE: I am responsible for making the Christmas cards, and as Goldfinger said: that was your first mistake, Mr. Bond. One year it’s a typo – Merry Chirstmas! – and the next it’s a blurry picture that looks like something snapped by a cellphone during an earthquake in a Vaseline factory. But this year I had a plan. I found a website that would deliver quality glossy prints in a trice. I had a new camera with so many megapixels it could actually show individual DNA strands if you zoomed in close enough. We took the pictures, and it was the usual assortment – Child™ mugged, I looked like Goofus McDork, and my wife looked perfect and radiant as ever. I uploaded the best one, chose 2-day delivery, and exhaled. Finally. Success.
The pictures arrived six days later. We look like we’re sitting in a coal mine during a solar eclipse. All you see are three pairs of glowing eyes, peering from some dim pit of perdition. From Hell’s Heart We Stab At Thee! Happy Holidays! I could call the company, demand they cattle-prod their elves into remaking the batch, or run to Target and use their machine. Either way, it’s screwed up again. To the tune of Silver Bells, then: Not my fault! Not my fault! I chose the overnight ship rate/ Don’t get tight / o’er reams to write/ who cares if they’re several days late?
