Christmas was rolling around, and there was talk about a movie marathon of holiday classics to be shown on the big day. All the usual suspects made the tentative playlist: It’s A Wonderful Life, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and an old Bing Crosby winter special – all wholesome, feel-good classics for movie night on an old country family farm. And all wholly overplayed, way past their prime, as far as Eva was concerned.
She complained about the tame selections and threw in a grievance about the lack of punctuality of movie times while she was at it. “Boooring!” she said petulantly to Geoffrey, who had assembled the collection. “I know they’re nice and all, but how about something different? What about a movie where Santa loses it at the mall and goes on a killing spree. With the materialistic frenzy of greedy consumers behaving like a herd of stampeding water buffaloes every year it’s totally plausible.”
“Arrrgh!” he grunted, rolling his eyes at her finicky demands. “I don’t know, that’s kind of a tall order. Not very inspirational, don’t think George would like it.”
“Well, then what’s the schedule for your movies? What time?” she asked. “I can’t stand this Farm Time nonsense, the loafing around and things starting two hours behind schedule.”
“Hey, what can I say. It’s Ranch Time. What do you want, the precise punctuality of a German train timetable? Won’t happen in a million years around here,” Geoffrey reminded her. “We all know George is the worst offender, like when he invites everyone for supper at exactly 6:22 but then dallies around on the tractor for another hour before he fires up the oven.”
“Wait, what’s this about Germans, trains, and ovens?” Jim butted in. He had just walked in with his golden retrievers. “You said we can’t watch Schindler’s List.”
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