My Cardboard Balcony

Taxes: Holiday Edition by Belinda Roddie Uncle Max has had too much egg nog again. "Every time!" his wife complains. He's done with shredding W-2's and burying them in fertile soil; now it's enriched by 1099's, and the tomatoes have never been bigger or redder, the strawberries never sweeter. He's fully two-dimensional now: Creased like letters addressed to the North Pole, he suspends himself like a floating origami crane on an easy chair. All he needs is a string to straighten out his spine as he dangles drunkenly from the ceiling. His magic tricks aren't as good anymore, especially not when rum is mixed with his "milk punch," as the beverage is apparently also called. I hope the time he gets for tax evasion isn't too hefty, though the IRS sure does respect his Christmas wishes by gifting him an affordable bail. I'll wrap up that fragile dream of his in tissue paper: Ribbons, but no bow. And once he gets to