... ..the scarlet letter ....January 6, 2004   What do you think about when you receive yet another annual, holiday season newsletter from a dorky relative or a not-so-close friend?  I'm reminded of the sinful life I've led.  I also speculate on what it must have been like to engage in serial infanticide during my previous incarnation.  How else can I explain this cruel, insipid tradition but as merciless karmic retribution?  My blind postman, Mr. McFeeley, recently delivered such a letter mailed by an aunt I couldn't identify in a police lineup.  Actually, Mr. McFeeley and his seeing eye dog, Magoo, delivered the letter to a dummy used for teaching CPR at the hospital across the street.  The letter was discovered by a phlebotomist who opened it by mistake, read it, and committed suicide by drawing every ounce of her own blood.  My aunt's bloodstained letter was finally brought to me by the dead phlebotomist's supervisor who was wearing a protective suit designed for handling biohazardous materials.  Even before I read it, the letter was getting bad reviews.  There's no telling how long it took my aunt to craft such a poorly crafted letter.  It was as folksy and personal as it was mass mailed.  I'm certainly glad she reminded me that my cousins finished in a three-way tie for the Nobel Prize in astrophysics.  Perhaps I should write and tell her my own children shared a prize from a box of Cracker Jacks.  Oh, and the vacations they took!  For my money, there's no story so gripping as a blow-by-blow account of a Branson, Missouri trip.  Did you know Gene Rayburn has been stuffed and mechanized?  Neither did I; but my uncle loved Gene's post-mortem musical based loosely on the old Match Game show.  It wasn't all lighthearted, however.  There was the passing of my aunt's beloved parakeet, a sobering reminder of our own mortality.  Truth be told, I'd sooner trade places with the parakeet than read another year-end newsletter.  previous..|..current..|..archives..|..1st quarter index..|..next

©  2004 by the beastmaster