Going Postal: Day 13

stamps.jpgDay 13: Toilet Paper is Meant for Your Butt

I need to keep this short today, because I have a ton of stuff to do, and not much time before I go back into action. A lot of people have asked the very valid questions, “Why don’t you just quit the job at the post office, and get work somewhere else?” I ask myself both questions on a nightly basis. I also ask myself if lusting after the hot Asians girls at work—who are probably all twenty years younger than me—makes me a dirty old man, but that’s a topic for a later date. Instead, I will attempt to answer the two more relevant questions.

First and foremost, I haven’t quit this job because I need the money, period. My last job never paid me that well, and I never managed to save that much loot. Plus, factor in the fact that all of my creative endeavors—the magazine, the films, the artificially intelligent sex dolls—all of ‘em have been self-financed. Serving as proof of my bad business sense, it also provides an explanation as to why I’m always broke.

I took this job because it was the first job that hired me. For over six months I’ve been looking for work doing what I would prefer to do, which is write. But even with all of the years of professional experience, nothing opened up to me. I was cut off of unemployment, my funds were steadily dwindling, there was no one I could (or world) borrow money from, and I needed to do what a man needs to do. But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to perform full-swallow blowjobs at the bus station, so I took a job at the post office instead. Besides, I did the math, and I would have to gobble a lot of cock to make the sort of money I’m making now. And a blowjob without any intimacy makes me depressed.

The reason I don’t get some other sort of job like a retail gig or something like that is really simple…I don’t like people. Seriously. I worked retail and customer service for more years than I care to remember, and if it came down to working at the mall or some grocery store—especially during the holidays—I probably would consider turning tricks on the street corner. I may be a total whiny pussy who complains about the back-breaking work and long hours at the post office, but I would rather put up with that than the dumbfucks who only possess enough intelligence to breed and ask stupid questions of the poor people stuck working behind the counter at Target and Barnes & Noble.

Call me whatever you want—an elitist, a fascist, a misanthrope, or just a common asshole—but I simply do not want to deal with the public. While I would not go so far as to say I hate my fellow man, I would say that my feelings tend to run either towards distain or disappointment.

Even at the post office, I see signs of the overall stupidity and general lack of common sense demonstrated by the average person. I can’t tell you how many parcels I’ve handled that were wrapped in some sort of flimsy toilet paper. Who the fuck sends a box in the mail that’s wrapped in toilet paper? An idiot, that’s who!!! Someone who never stops to think that the package will be handled by dozens of people, moved over dozens of machines, and mixed in with thousands of other parcels. So when little Timmy gets the present grandma sent him, and the box is all messed up, and the cute toilet paper wrapping is all torn and fucked up and not cute anymore, Timmy and grandma and Timmy’s parents are all upset, but none of them are smart enough to think, “Hey, maybe some cheap-ass toilet paper won’t stand up to the postal journey from Iowa to California. Toilet paper is meant for you butt, to wipe it after you pinch a loaf!!! You don’t wrap a box filled with almond rocha, a scarf, and an illustrated children’s Bible with the same type of paper you wipe your ass with!!!

And that’s just one example. How about the countless fuckers out there with illegible handwriting. Ted Pirro, one of my best friends on the planet has some of the worst handwriting you could ever imagine. A well-trained gibbon has better penmanship than Ted, but still, as illegible as his chicken-scratch handwriting may be, Ted isn’t nearly as bad as countless other people out there. At least you know what language Ted is spelling out, and can generally understand what he’s trying to communicate. But I get a package at work, and I need to look at the address to see where it needs to go, and I can’t read the damn writing. Are these English letters, or a mix of Chinese and Hebrew, as written out by someone with Parkinson’s? I mean seriously, if you are making out an address on a package you are sending, don’t you want to people at the post office to know where it is going? Wouldn’t you want it to be as easy as possible for all concerned to understand what it is you are trying to say? Well, the answer to that question is “no,” because most people are too self-absorbed to realize how stupid they are being—writing illegibly on a package wrapped in toilet paper that they honestly expect people to “handle with care.” (By the way, do you know that “handle with care” means absolutely nothing in the lexicon of the postal worker?)

So, I guess the point is that I would much rather work in a difficult, unpleasant environment where I don’t have to deal directly with the stupid people out there in the cruel world, than return to a place like Hot Topic (yeah, I worked there).

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One Response to “Going Postal: Day 13”

  1. jamiesrich Says:

    You actually answered my question in the second to last paragraph. I was going to ask if having the clerk at the counter stamp your package as “fragile” causes it to be handled any differently. Because I sent a glass bowl to a friend and thought I had done a good job of packing it (and man, I’ve packed a lot of packages for mailing in my time, I’m no slouch), and the thing arrived shattered beyond repair. I’m totally bummed and am searching all over for a replacement that is affordable. (I paid $10 for this bowl, didn’t insure it because, you know, it’s $10, and now that I go shopping for it, it turns out to be worth $50! Live and learn.)

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