Going Postal: Day 21

heston.jpgDay 21: The Reluctant Hero Has Sex with Midgets

It has been many years since I read Walter Tevis’ science fiction novel Mockingbird, but parts of the book have stuck with me, and lately I’ve been thinking a lot about it. Set in a dystopian future, where the human race has become overly dependent upon technology, and as a result has been slowly moving toward extinction, the book chronicles Bentley, a man who learns to read after the rest of humanity has become illiterate. Bentley is cut from a similar cloth as Guy Montag, the reluctant hero of Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451 (another favorite book), and in one of the book’s most profound moments, he stumbles into factory that manufactures toasters. The factory is staffed by simple-minded androids with no power to think for themselves, and as Bentley watches them go about their routine of manufacturing toasters, he notices that every toaster the androids assemble does not work, so it is thrown in a pile of defective units, taken apart and reassembled in a never-ending process. Bentley discovers that the reason the toasters do not work is because the conveyor belt that delivers a simple piece is jammed, and since the androids aren’t programmed to think, they can’t fix the problem. As Bentley corrects the problem, he realizes that he has not had toast since he was a child, because there were no toasters.

I’ve been feeling a lot like Bentley lately. Not to mention Guy Montag and I Am Legend’s Robert Neville and Ben from Night of the Living Dead and a whole host of other reluctant heroes trying to survive in a world gone mad. Can you see where I’m going with this?

Some of the most compelling heroes of pop fiction are those alienated loners who find themselves at odds with their environment—the stranger in a strange land. These were the heroes I always related to the most. Sure, I love my shit like Star Trek, but I never related to characters who willingly jumped into the action. I always felt for guys like Taylor in Planet of the Apes, who was just minding his own business, doing his job as an astronaut, and ended up on the bottom end of the evolutionary chain on a planet ruled by simians. I remember when I was kid, it seemed like everyone wanted to be an astronaut; except for me, because I was convinced if I ever chose that as a career, I would end up on a planet of apes. Instead, I work at the fucking post office—it’s six of one, half dozen of the other.

Under “normal” circumstances the mail arrives in one of several different types of containers. But during the holidays, because of the increase in mail volume, they run out of the standard types of carriers used to transport large amount of mail, and rely on good old-fashioned cardboard boxes. But these aren’t you average cardboard boxes; no, these have been no-doubt designed by a crack team of government specialists in the transportation of large quantities of crap. These special boxes are designed to be placed on top of palettes, and can then be transported by truck. Perhaps the most interesting aspect of the boxes is the fact that when they are placed on top of a palette, they stand over six feet tall. This feature can make it very difficult to not only load the box, especially when placing something heavy, like a flat-screen television in one (I swear, someone actually sent a flat-screen TV in the mail), it also makes it difficult to see how much you’ve loaded into the box. But what is really difficult is unloading one of these motherfuckers. Have you ever tried to get a 50 pound parcel out of the bottom of box that stands at more than six-feet tall? Well, unless you’re twelve-feet tall, you can’t exactly just reach in grab some shit outta these things.

When I showed up for work—a full 20-minutes late—I arrived to find a crew of people trying to unload these massive boxes. It was a sad sight to behold, and an even sadder endeavor to partake in. Drunk monkey rolling in their own feces would have looked more dignified. Basically, you had to tip the box over on its side, and then crawl inside to get the parcels out. It would have been humiliating if it was my first day of working at the post office, but this was the last day of my fourth full week, and it was just another example of the dehumanizing stupidity that defines being a member of the team. The whole time I was crawling around on my knees trying to gather up packages of cookies with powdered sugar that create anthrax scares and bricks wrapped in steel, I kept thinking that the assholes who came up with the idea of using these boxes never had to load or unload the fucking things.

It seems like whenever you read something negative about the post office—like when some poor mailhandler snaps and kills his supervisor—there is always mention of how the United States Postal Service is run a lot like the military. Hmmmm. Boxes to tall for people to reach in to and defective body armor? People giving orders and making decisions with little forethought about the safety of the idiots on the frontline?

What is really interesting is how much more sympathy I now have for soldiers in combat. Don’t get me wrong, because I still don’t support the war in any capacity, but my heart goes out to the mean and women in the military. Last night, as I struggled to tip over a six-foot tall cardboard box that weighed several hundred pounds, and then crawled around on the floor to retrieve its contents, I thought to myself, “Hey, at least you’re not in Iraq patrolling for IEDs (Improvised Explosive Devices) on the side of the road, because your fighting a war to stop a country with weapons of mass destruction that don’t exist.” I mean shit, damn and fuck…all I had to worry about was smashing my head on the cardboard as I pulled out poorly-wrapped parcels with illegible handwriting on the labels.

So, that’s what last night was like. Most of the holiday temp crew was gone, but there was still a ton of work to be done. There was only a handful of us left, and most of us had the look of battle-weary soldiers, and it seemed like everyone had this look on their face that said, “What did I do to deserve this?” Even my main man Mo’ Money had grown sick of the job. They messed up his paycheck, and paid him with a money order, and when they finally got shit resolved with his check, he had to pay back the money order. He was explaining this to me in some of the most broken English you can imagine. About the only thing I could understand him saying was, “No good.” I looked at him and said, “In this country, we say ‘bullshit.’ That’s what’s going on with you, my friend. Bullshit.”

It was interesting trying to figure out why the people that were still around were still around. I was obvious that guys like me were still being put to work, because we’re stupid and we can lift heavy things (which are good things for the resume). What I was trying to understand was why so many of the hot Asian chicks were still around, because as near as I can tell, none of them actually do any work.

I haven’t really talked about the Asian chicks that much, because I didn’t want this to turn into some bizarre fetish thing with me sexually objectifying my co-workers. I also didn’t want to come across as some sort of Chester the molester, because most of these chicks are only 18 and 19 years-old. But hey…why the fuck not? I mean the reason most of you paid admission to this freakshow was to see how much I could humiliate myself.

Now, before I get into the heart of this, please know that if there were white, black or Hispanic women at work worth sexually objectifying, I would do that in a heartbeat. But when push comes to shove—or more appropriately, when bump comes to grind—the only women at work worth sprouting wood over all happen to be Asian (Vietnamese to be specific). There are about five or six chicks at work that get my blood flowing and make me feel like a perverted old man. I don’t know their names, so when I’m fantasizing about them, I refer to them by names like Sista Booty (because she has an ass like sista), Tila (because she reminds me of MySpace legend Tila Tequilla), The Librarian (because she looks like she could work at a library), and the Munchkin (because she is really short). In the case of the Munchkin, I think she may actually be less than five-feet tall, which got me to wondering if she was actually short enough to be a midget. Which then got me to wondering if I would ever have sex with a midget. And I realized that if she was in fact a midget, then the answer to question would have to be, “Yes, I’d throw a hump into a midget.” And even if she wasn’t a midget, I would probably consider having sex with one. And of course, that then opened me up to the whole idea of what sort of disabilities and birth-defects would keep me from having sex with a woman. Would I have sex with someone with only one arm? What about no arms? How about no legs?

Now, just so everyone knows, I’ve given this a lot of thought. And the important thing to remember is that I’m talking about simply having sex, not having some sort of lasting relationship. I don’t want to seem like too big of an asshole, but I figure that the baggage most women bring into a relationship is too much for me to handle as it is; if you threw in being blind, having no legs, or being hooked up to an iron lung, I don’t think I could handle it. And since this is my fantasy world, I can get away with having sex with women without making any sort of commitment, or worrying about their feelings (although in my fantasy world I do care about giving them orgasms—unless their ailment is being a cold-hearted bitch). So, I’ve come to the conclusion that any sort of disability involving the senses is fine, like being blind or deaf (as long as not both at the same time). Surprisingly, I would hesitate with someone who was mute, but would most likely give in. I could also have sex with a woman with one arm, but not no arms, as well as one leg, provided it was only missing from the knee down. I could also do someone missing a leg and an arm, who was blind or deaf, but not blind and deaf.

After I came up with those guidelines, I then moved on to things like conjoined twins, and the sort of stuff that doesn’t exist in real life, like two-headed women, or chicks covered in animal fur like Tigra from the Avengers comic book. I’m not going to share those conclusions, for fear I may come across too freaky. But what’s important to explain is that these thoughts, and the time I have spent dwelling on them, are actually not a reflection of my time working at the post office. This is the sort of shit I think about all the time. The sad part is that this is the sort of stuff I think about at the post office to make me feel like I’m not going insane. If I didn’t have the dilemma of fucking a midget to think about, the reality of my surroundings would become too much to handle, and I would throw myself against a wall, and scream out in my best Charlton Heston imitation, It’s a madhouse! A madhouse!!!

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5 Responses to “Going Postal: Day 21”

  1. L13 Says:

    great
    keep going
    or unraveling
    i feel guilty
    like i should be paying to watch you implode
    merry xmas dude

  2. mikimonster Says:

    I’m under 4′ 9 3/4″……….
    There was a convention a few years ago in San Jose that I heard about. The proper term is “little person”. You hear that big black man?? Little person.

  3. L13 Says:

    oh snap!!!

  4. Chief Scalpum Whiteman Says:

    I think I could bone a one-legged chick, as long as she had a good looking stump. If it was a fucked up stump, that would just weird me out.

  5. lively Says:

    fantastic

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