Originally Posted: 2007-10-15 02:05 (no longer live)

To a few patrons of the Multnomah Post Office. . .

To a few patrons of the Multnomah Post Office:

1) Middle-Aged Clueless Woman of Japanese Descent: OK, the USPS website said you could ship that package to Kyushu for $6.75 and come to find out, from two clerks at the counter, that it actually costs $37. Do you really think that 10 pounds of anything will ship Priority across an ocean for $6.75? Do you?? How about this. . .use some common sense, step up and realize you read the information on the website incorrectly and trust the clerks that do this for a living. I say this with a smirk, but they are EXPERTS and I KNOW they were actually right this time! Dumb. Ass. Casting a request-for-sympathy-gaze to the rest of us in line got you nothing. In fact, I think I witnessed an 80-year-old woman mouth the words, ‘Eat Shit’. I saw you again just the other day on Capitol by the Thai restaurant. Sweet Jesus, woman, you live around here??

2) Trailer-Trash Wannabe eBay Businesswoman: Yeah, yeah, yeah. It’s clear you got some postal game. I mean, you had at least 10 packages prepaid, all ready to go and have obviously mastered Click-N-Ship. Your shit is tight. But ya gotta stick with what ya know, and assisting the clerks in dealing with Middle-Aged Clueless Woman of Japanese Descent is obviously NOT what you know. In fact, that effort was downright futile. You should have known this. After all, you’re here every day with your Goodwill-fodder turned eBay treasure. (although I will give you props for being certified WT and under 200 lbs). Anyway, you were really annoying in saying repeatedly, the same fucking shit the clerks were saying, but with an Estacadian’s command of the English language. C’mon! Middle-Aged Clueless Woman of Japanese Descent was getting uber-agitated and the longer she was agitated, clearly, the longer she was going to camp at the counter until attaining some degree ‘respect’ or validation. Did I mention that while you were ‘helping’ the hapless clerks, you were yourself at the counter being assisted by the ONLY other clerk not involved in the fray? Oblivious psycho. You sort of recognized me during your righteous attempt at ‘helping’, and you cast yet another request-for-sympathy-gaze. You were not indulged. I maintained the eat-shit expression recently conveyed by the wise and elderly madam behind me. You know, you were nice to me one time when you held that door open, otherwise you would have been at the top of this list.

3) The Yeller: Now I haven’t seen you before, but you were on a freakin’ MISSION. I could tell you were a jacked-up Type A in about. . .a second. It’s a good thing you weren’t here Friday, dog. I mean, some shit went down with this crazy lady that. . . Anyway, things were moving pretty good, but obviously too slowly for you. Think, man. . .if you commit to a line that has 12 people in it and two clerks at the counter, what do you expect? Obviously you expect either personal service or a hand job because waiting 5 minutes ANYWHERE is not your strong suit. I was down with the people in the line that day dog, I mean, there was some respectful and sweet old people, a smiling soccer mom and even a non-screaming kid that was actually capable of independent play. There was a 1 for 2 clerk situation (one good one) and overall things were looking pretty good. Until of course you mouthed off, “Can you guys get some help out here? Fuckin’ A!” I’m all for more counter help. In fact, I might even send a letter to management to report how painful this station is, but saying what you said and then doing all your posturing, sighing and slamming your flat-rates on the counter just wasn’t cool. The FuckinA was especially uncalled for, and frankly, it really wasn’t on par with your $75 Magnum Opus haircut and designer clothes you were sporting. I firmly believe that a simple, “Jesus!”, with an emphasis on the ‘Gee’, befits a man of your caliber. Seriously, your reckless tirade left one clerk speechless for a least five minutes and should have resulted in the postmaster booting your ass out the door. I was embarrassed because we share the same generation. Here’s a recommendation: your time is far too precious to expend at the post office, please send your trophy wife in – me and a couple other regulars wouldn’t mind checking out some fakies once in a while. And dude, what the fuck are you doing out of Lake Oswego anyway?

4) Forty-Five-Year-Old Cell Phone Tard: I’m not spending a lot of time on you. Others have. Your ilk is well-known and well-hated, like on that trip to Salzberg during the fortress tour where you talked over the guide on your cell phone about some fucking t-ball game your brat played in, or at the Beaverton Nissan dealership when you were buying the convertible Z (gag), or even in the milf-infested Pearl District Starbuck’s. So you think you have a really cool job? Well let me tell you. . .people could give a shit when they’re well into their 20th minute standing at the Multnomah Post Office! We really aren’t impressed that you’re part of the ‘CG effort’ for the next Dreamworks production. I mean, YOU SELL COMPUTER PARTS ferchrissakes (memory modules I think?) to the Techs that run the computers that support the Creatives that bust their ass in a very non-glamorous sweat shop hell of a job. Come to think of it, you’re NOT really part of the ‘CG effort’ at all. You’re just some nominally-educated, self-employed consultant dickhead that believes he’s getting his 15 minutes of fame by name-dropping ‘Dreamworks’ fifty times to some pissed off people in a line at the post office. I guess I did spend a lot of time on you. And that’s because I hate you.

5) Sighing Milf: I don’t have a clear picture of you, because you come in droves. You are all shapes, sizes and flavors. 20’s, 30’s, 40’s, blonde, brunette or redhead, you have truly perfected the art of The Sigh. I’ve come to appreciate and respect you, for when I hear your call, I’m about to have a great moment. Now, The Sigh indicates that I’m moving a lot of merchandise and I’ve got a formidable stack of packages with me. Capitalism at work. Money in my wallet. I’m already having a good day. I want to let YOU in on a little secret Sighing Milf. . .your sweet sigh will almost always preclude one or all of the following: a slower than normal process of placing the packages on the counter, my apparent confusion with a receipt or customs form, or, if I’m feeling especially wicked, entry into a light-hearted and prolonged banter with Pete the clerk. You may not be subjected to these atrocities though if Sweet Old Lady or Smiling Soccer Mom are in front of you. But, mind you, I’m here almost every day and you’ll be back too because I’ve seen your road-weapon Navigator with the lame stick-family sticker in the parking lot before. It’s a slippery slope, The Sigh, and it may eventually elevate you to Cold-Hearted Bitch someday. Just sayin’.

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