Going Postal

 

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Damaged books, hurrah!

The United States Postal Service and I have an uneasy association. We’re entangled in a dysfunctional relationship predicated on the idea that I’d like my mail delivered in approximately the same general structure in which it was originally sent, and they don’t give a flying fuck what I want.

Most of my friends know about my self-imposed mission to straighten out this quasi-government agency, and I’m guessing, more than a few of them have some concerns about me because of it. I complain about my experiences with mail delivery all the time. I’ve contacted the Postmaster General more than once, and I’m often seen firing off a smoking, hot email to a regional USPS Vice President from my iPhone.

I’m certain I was a mail carrier in another life and a shitty one at that. There is no other explanation for my current problems. In a previous life, I was probably one of those guys that hoarded other people’s mail, hiding it in huge stacks in my house, which was so full of crap there were paths throughout the rooms, like a paper infested rat’s maze. Instead of cheese at the end of the puzzle, there were only ads about cheese. The California Milk Advisory Board’s marketing campaign, “It’s the cheese. Real California cheese.”

Like a lot of people, I have one of those smaller mailboxes known as a “Gibraltar Box.” Go ahead and look it up, I’ll wait. It’s the kind of box that sits curbside so mail carriers can shove the mail from the comfort of their little mail trucks. Now imagine that particular box having 10-days worth of mail in it because you were on vacation. Most of us get a lot of junk in the mail in addition to bills and other items, and in an election year, well, enough said. But now imagine the contents of that box also included a plastic envelope measuring 15” x 22,” you know, the kind of mailer that clothing is often shipped in, and in this case, contained a rather expensive jacket. Now you have an idea of what the mail delivery looks like at my place. Every. Single. Day.

What is left to do after you’ve spoken nicely to the carrier, moved up the chain to the Regional Manger, then the Regional Vice President, and finally to the Postmaster General herself? To their credit, they’ve coached the poor performance,  but seem to have a rogue on their hands they don’t know how to handle.

I’m inclined to rehome a nest of birds about to fly the coop, and see what happens when the carrier opens that door. Then again, who am I to step into the Karma he’s creating for himself? I wish all good things for him in his next life. I just wish he wasn’t delivering my mail in this one.

*Disclaimer: I’ve never been a mail carrier although one year I was hired at the Christmas holidays to sort. I declined when I saw where the work took place. Nobody can function in that much government gray, which actually explains a lot.

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No front page, no problem.

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