Fred Shakespeare had not inherited the gift for words of his ancestor. For that matter, he hadn’t inherited a gift for anything except one. He had a gift for choosing the wrong words in most given situations. Fred was unknowingly skilled in the art of the faux pas.

“Look at that ugly child,” he once said to his now ex-boss before being introduced to his boss’s family.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he quoted to dump his girlfriend convinced it meant he was happy to see the end of her.

She had kissed him on the cheek, “You’re so sweet.”

“That went well,” he’d thought.

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