Thursday, May 30, 2013

Goin' Postal

You know, I bet this isn't news by any stretch of the imagination, surely someone's thought of it. But during the trend of postal employee-related massacres and other such activities, it has to be the nature of the job. You're sitting around sorting boxes all day, boxes full of presents you can never open. The best you can do is shake them. You pick 'em up, and see some exotic destination you've never been to. You see the name of some gal or guy that's totally better than your spouse. You wonder what's inside, but it's a federal offense to open that shite.

Electronics, goods, gold, food, valuables and heartfelt love letters. It's Antiques Roadshow if they blackened out the screen and muted the words every time they said something descriptive. What's behind the black curtain? You'll never know. Hundreds of times a day you're being denied a birthday present. At least 10% of those are nude photographs or sex tapes of your post office regulars, but no, no opening. No opening. It's a looming federal offense. Federal offense? That's up there with murder. May as well murder. You're in the mad house. You're surrounded by coworkers whose curiosity has been culled. You may as well be dead. THEY may as well be.

Antiques Roadshow: Drive You Insane edition

Plus you've gotta worry about anthrax and the Unibomber, the obsessed fan letter that's ticking away. Shipping isn't always precise, the bomb might go off prematurely. You're like the elves in the north pole except you never see the toys. It's Christmas, I must reiterate, Christmas every day of the year! But you don't get to celebrate. Pass the gifts and carry on. This one's going to Japan. I always wanted to go to Japan. But I'm stuck working at a post office. Man, it's insured for $2,000. I could take this, sell it on eBay, and go to Japan.

Then there's all the safety deposit boxes called P.O. boxes. Only the crazies use P.O. boxes, further lowering morale. Drugs, illegal guns and knives, all the coolest stuff gets sent there. Post office work is an endless reminder of your unjoy. In fact, the only time you do get to open stuff is when you suspect it's drugs. So you finally open a box in your miserable life and it's a bunch of drugs that you cannot use to escape the pain. And boy, is it pain. You've become like the packaging you sell, an empty shell. All the hope and promise held inside will be lost... like boxes... in a sorting facility.

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