Ebenezer Scrooge Reviews His Christmas Cards
The worst “good tidings” I received this holiday season
From Bob Cratchit:
A simple “thank you” note.
Neatly folded. Handwritten and handmade — on my office stationery. Pay docked for materials. A noble attempt to inquire about a raise. Denied, but noted.
From Tiny Tim:
“God bless us, every one!”
Generic. Pandering. Broad. Keeps chirping the same greeting about town incessantly, trying to make his sycophantic catchphrase stick.
From my charwoman, Mrs. Dilber:
“Season’s Greetings.”
Acceptably secular tidings — sent alongside documented accusations of workplace abuse, co-signed by Cratchit. Consigned to flames.
From Fred, my Christmas-obsessed nephew:
A singing telegram.
Would consign to flames, but murder.
From Mr. Fezziwig:
“Merry Christmas!!!”
Gilded corners. Excessive embossing. Earnest scrawl. Far too many exclamation points. An alarming laughter-to-income ratio. Returned to sender before interest accrues.
From Mrs. Fezziwig:
“Tis the season to be jolly!”
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Insistent. Incessant. Gleeful and glitter-ridden. Abominable. Feckless. Everywhere. Blacklisted.
From the Ghost of Christmas Past:
My most egregious regrets, itemized like an overdue invoice.
Spattered in candlewax drippings like an anachronistic Jackson Pollock.
From the Ghost of Christmas Present:
A cornucopia on cheap cardstock.
Sweet words that smell of saccharinity and roast beef. Watermarked in gravy fingerprints.
From the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come:
Unsolicited clippings of white-collar obituaries.
Also, a rough draft of the devastating eulogy he intends to read at my funeral.
From Jacob Marley, my dearly departed business partner:
A delightful reminder that compound interest is eternal and unforgiving.
Envelope arrived reeking of sulfur. A crisp, creased spine with crispy edges. Singed at the corners. Signed in iron filings that blackened my fingers like ledger ink.
Consigned to flames. Marley, not the letter.
From Mrs. Cratchit:
Frosty threats, frosted in pleasantries.
Accompanied by a rather crude doodle of Nana Scrooge riding the family steed — and then, the other way around — along with two invitations to go Scrooge myself.
Passive-aggression, thy name is Cratchit.
Originally published at Points in Case.
