Mistletoe

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It was slightly before Thanksgiving. The trip went reasonably

well, and I 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, I was not in a particularly good mood.

Going to check in my luggage (which, for some reason, had become one suitcase with entirely new clothes), I 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, I 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."