> It was slightly before Thanksgiving. The trip went reasonably
> well, and he was ready to go back. The airport on the other
> end had turned a tacky red and green, and loudspeakers blared
> annoying elevator renditions of cherished Christmas carols.
> Being someone who took Christmas very seriously, and being
> slightly tired, he was not in a particularly good mood. Going
> to check in his luggage (which, for some reason, had become one
> suitcase with entirely new clothes), he saw hanging mistletoe.
> Not real mistletoe, but very cheap plastic with red paint on
> some of the rounder parts and green paint on some of the flatter
> and pointier parts, that could be taken for mistletoe only in a
> very Picasso sort of way. With a considerable degree of irritation
> and nowhere else to vent it, he said to the attendant, "Even if
> I were not married, I would not want to kiss you under such a
> ghastly mockery of mistletoe."
> "Sir, look more closely at where the mistletoe is."
> (pause)
> "Ok, I see that it's above the luggage scale, which is the place
> you'd have to step forward for a kiss."
> "That's not why it's there."
> (pause)
> "Ok, I give up. Why is it there?"
> "It's there so you can kiss your luggage goodbye."
>
>
> |