I spent most of the day dealing with holes--literal ones, in a wall--that were supposedly fixed a long time ago and appeared fine to the naked eye, but were actually open and gaping. This sounds like a metaphor, and I'm sure that one day an image of the yawning, crumbling black space behind my bathroom tiles will again leap to mind, and I will understand life so much better than before. But at the moment it's just a hole on the p'shat level, and if the gentleman from Mr. Fix-It does not re-fix it at no charge, I will be very unhappy and will want to p'shoot someone. (Sorry, I couldn't resist.)
Meanwhile, here's a display I saw last week in Rite-Aid. It's not the greatest photo, but you can still make out the stacked tins of Spam next to the dreidel shelf decorations.