The postman always rings (the panic button) at least twice…

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We’ve all experienced the JOYS of certain little inconveniences meted out by those in the “public service sector”: the fat DMV worker wearing Wal*Mart stretch pants and day-glo shimmer pink nail polish, who bathes you in rancid coffee breath as  she informs you of all the additional “fees” you now owe the DMV in order to get your 1971 Ford Pinto registered; the pimply face McDonald employee who makes you late for work every morning by holding you up in line as he slooooowly counts his money drawer 5 times, yet still manages to get your order for coffee wrong; that one special teller at your bank who should be held up at gunpoint and pistol whipped in the face based soley on principal, and of course one or two of the lovely people who make up the employee population at the Post Office. 

After our experiences with OUR local post office spanning a period of almost a month, I now understand the term “going postal” , and why some of us may have no choice but to give in to its siren call. (Or maybe I’m just justifying Todd’s reactive behavior…you be the judge). 

THE SAGA OF TODD AND THE POST OFFICE – A PlAY IN THREE POSTS

Part One: For Whom the Bell Tolls..

It’ a beautiful day in the Gangsta Hood, and for once the bullets over Broadway can’t be heard so  Let’s Go Get Our Mailbox Key!  Since I’m out-of-town this day, Todd decides to take on this task even though it means taking a risk of getting run over by the NASCAR race of endless Black and Whites that speed down our street from 3 am to 5 pm, eradicating every living thing that gets in their way as they head to The Donut Ranch for that one last jelly crueller and cup of Joe before heading back to a bottle of whiskey and a bitchy spouse.  Thankful with their cut from a stash of really good street dope that helps blurr the red pill vision of their home lives.

Anyway, the destination is less than  2 blocks from our cinderblock drive- by  target, and since we’ve been expecting a check for the last 2 days, Todd and the Fluffster head out in the badass Mustang for a pleasant little visit to our friendly neighborhood post office – proof of residency documents in hand. 

Once there, Todd stumbles over a panhandler who’s set up a kind of  hopeful “toll booth” at the post office door, and takes his place at the end of  the line behind a mustachioed, portly gentleman in curlers and a Wal*Mart flowered moo moo who’s muttering to himself about Crisco. So far there’s only one postal clerk on duty (cutbacks? union breaks? who knows) but since there’s only 5 or 6 people in line before him, he figures it could be worse.

One by one the people are called up in traffic court-like fashion to be assisted in a painfully sloooow manner by the same one clerk.  The barely-moving dream state atmosphere is greatly enchanced by the autistic-like behavior of the one clerk – who takes “time outs” in between helping each customers to adjust underwear that’s crawled into his butt crack and then  inspect what he’s found there,  check the ink on his time stamp and compare it’s quality with a sample stamped on a change of address card from a previous day, and of course, count his drawer money again and again in the true fast food OCD tradition that has  made so many pimply-faced grease flippers so annoyingly memorable.   

Finally a creaky voice calls out “neeeeext” and Todd comes face to face with  the clerk.  A circus-quality “smidge”  of a man (about 4 11′), who’s uptight and cranky – due to either his chaffed butt crack or because he’s still pissed off at being forced yearly into the role of  “lollipop kid” in the Post Office annual Summer Fest employee version of the Wizard of Oz.  “Can I help you?” asks the man, like his heart really isn’t into it. Todd explains we just moved here and need to pick up our mailbox  key, AND he’s brought the proper residency-establishing documents!

“OK, says the bored federal smurf, here’s a list of requirements you need to fill, then I need $30 in a check or money order and THEN it’ll take about 7 days”.   He hands Todd a pre-printed list but Todd ignores it – he’s still stuck on two things only- “$30 dollars”  and “7 days”.  “For WHAT?”, my proper victorian gentleman asks, a bit loudly.  “For The…. Key… To..Be…Made..” the minute man explains in a Can-You-Believe-This-Moron tone of voice.

“No, that won’t do – we have to pay bills and we’ve already changed our address!” “I have the $30 for you, but there’s one problem – it’s in MY MAILBOX and won’t be available for SEVEN DAYS! Why 7 days? Did you misplace the key? Does the Union allow you 7 DAYS TO DIG THAT FAR UP IN YOUR ASS TO FIND IT?  Hint…It’s probably kitty corner to the gerbil you haven’t been able to find since last Christmas” 

“Try Crisco, yeah, Crisco”,  mutters Moo Moo man, who never left the post office after his turn in line.  He’s leaning up against a wall being a spectator, adjusting his Moo Moo hem and making himself at home.

“WTF?!! No one can help me out here?” At the last part of WTF (the F part) Todd literally hears bells go off. At the back of his mind he’s thinking ‘either it’s time for another bi-hourly Union mandated employee break or there’s a robbery in progress here and I’m gonna see some SHIT go down now!’

Then he notices Billy Barty has a frozen deadpan expression on his face and not only has his right hand disappeared behind the service counter, but the muscles in his forearm are bunched up and twitching like he’s by himself on a rainy Saturday, just he and a batch of clown porn. 

FOR WHOM DOES THE BELL TOLL? In a flash Todd realizes the bell is tolling for Todd.

Since Todd doesn’ t have the $30 in order to begin the postal’s anal cavity investigation for his mailbox key, he bravely decides to return to fight another day – and leaves while things are still friendly and he’s still cuffless.

Sneaking out the door Todd whispers “Try Karo syrup instead of Crisco”, to Wal*Mart Curler Man who’s STILL at the Post Office and standing back in line again.   “Crisco!” the man smiles exurberantly, like he can’t believe he didn’t think of that before!

As Todd unlocks the Mustang he realizes that Fluffy’s earlier request for an open window had nothing to do with needing air, but played  the escape route in his planned disertion of his appointed post as faithful driving companion.  “Where the FUCK is my dog?” Todd yells at the panhandling toll-booth keeper, who’s swaying way too close to the car to be completely ignorant in his knowledge of the whereabouts of Fluff.  “You mean tha’ dog o’er there?” slur/burps the panhandler.  Todd looks around and there is the Fluffster, waiting patiently for Todd at the door of the  neighboring establishment “Sticky Pricky Love You Long Time Massage Parlor”.

“Fluff!” LOAD UP!”  Fluffy comes running over joyfully and leaps into the car for a ride his next adventure. Ignoring the angry cries of “Hey DOG!  You owe my girl $25!” from the Massage Parlor Madam who’s at the door shaking a fist, Todd shakes his head at Fluffy and drives off, thoughts on making alternative plans to free our hostage check.  He leaves a polite little note in the mail slot for the postman to find the next day.

At 11 am Friday morning, our street’s postman delivers our mail personally to our residence. He asks how our newborn is doing and recommends a couple of price-friendly, low-fatality,  grocery stores in the area.  Todd says “Fluffy is fine and thriving!” and thanks a confused-looking Mr. McFeely for his help.
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And…our check is there in the mail. Todd discards the bills into the trash and kisses the check! We’re saved for a moment….BUT the saga continues in Chapter 2.  Stay tuned….

 

TODD’S HINT FOR THE UPROOTED CLUELESS:   “When you move and don’t want to deal with the bureaucratic red tape 2 to 3 “business days” to establish or transfer services – SMUD, PHONE, CABLE, PG&E (whatever.. except the Post Office apparently)  – tell the rep you speak with you had to move, you have a newborn, you NEED electricity AND CABLE as your job is done via the internet.  Also throw in you have no transportation and no food and don’t know what to do.  The service rep stops hearing anything after the word “newborn” and will go to great lengths to help your fictictious “little one” grow up to be a healthy pain in the asses of it’s parent’s as it strives to be “all it can be” in it’s contribution to the drain on society…”

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5 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. Trackback: Posts about Ford Mustangs as of September 26, 2009 | Mustang
  2. Thinkinfyou
    Sep 26, 2009 @ 22:04:05

    What a brilliant idea! I’m going to have to remember that the next time I’m about to be cut off!

    Reply

  3. surveygirl46
    Sep 26, 2009 @ 23:38:15

    Yes, Todd is a vertible wealth of useful knowledge, and is mentoring me day by day…

    Reply

  4. FreakSmack
    Sep 28, 2009 @ 03:53:41

    The newborn story works great after a storm when the power is knocked out, I’ve used it for years. For super fast response time have another person call too and claim to be your neighbor who’s both concerned and tired of listening to a baby cry.

    Reply

  5. surveygirl46
    Sep 28, 2009 @ 04:54:15

    Exxxxxxcellent FS…..I will relay the additional info to my man and he will update his records immediately….

    Reply

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