Pinkish-red facetiousness

It all happens like this.

The contractual paperwork required by your new customer had been sitting in your inbox, painted red, for two weeks.

Because neither lecturing the customer about the merits of open file formats, nor delivering a not-exactly-perfect paperwork are an option, the Microsoft computer has been fired up.
And the printer driver CDs located.
And the bloatware installation avoided, and the thirty-minute, seventeen-step wishful plug-and-play procedure completed.

And said contractual paperwork, duly printed, filled and attached to a kind letter offering sincere excuses —it’s been a busy school return — , sits in an un-stamped envelope in your hand, behind three customers at the local post office.

The post office dates from the 70s and the two-counter room must have been rather classy. These days, a bunch of second-rate posters for insurance plans taped on the wall try to take your attention away from all the details of the current transaction taking place through the reinforced glass. In a disturbing way, contemplating the décor is exactly as irritating as mentally checking that the postal employee is not skipping a 50 euro bill —La Poste sells bank accounts without credit cards— on his count up to eight hundred.

But now, your turn has come at the counter, and since the envelope is two grams overweight, it receives two of the little red stickers.
Only after the employee’s dated stamp has vigorously come down twice on the envelope do you, curiously, pay attention to the colour and the pattern. And, only as the transaction comes to an end and the eight other stamps arrive in your hands, do you irrevocably lose faith in your national postal system.

What stamping could better suit an all-important, late contract letter to your second best customer, than two large pinkish red rectangles shouting ‘VACATION’ in an all-caps 70’s font?
At this point, two rational options for action spring up. The first is to have the envelope given back to you, at the cost of difficult explanations, two hard-earned stamps, and the search for a new envelope (not an item sold here).
The second option is to indulge into clenched-teeth swearing and cursing, with complimentary thoughts about the upcoming privatisation demise of the governmental monopoly.
You, of course, opt for the third option, surrendering to an irresistible, half-nervous laugh, and blaming it all on the same facetious destiny that brought you to find that one euro coin right in the middle of that grass field, the previous week.

Some comfort inevitably comes after you acknowledge that the chicken head picture didn’t make it to the sacred envelope; but your mind races to imagine the other other pinkish-red, cheap stock photography that did: a juicy steak? A bra? You’ll never know now, and your customer will, and that is what you call the Greater Sense of Humour of life.