Originally Posted: 2006-09-14 12:38 (no longer live)

Rant: Post Office

Rant: Post Office

Yet another 40 minutes spent in line at the United States Post Office. When I arrived, I simply wanted to mail a package (media mail) with delivery confirmation. Look who was in front of me:

Old Fart with Hair in Ears: You must be 80 years old, if a day. Is this your first time to the post office? I figure it must be since you had the clerk list EVERY POSSIBLE METHOD of mailing your damn package! When the clerk finally stopped and looked hopefully at you, you then began asking the most inane questions imaginable: Is delivery confirmation the same as certified? Will the recipient be told the package is from me? (I still have no idea what he meant). If I send it next-day-mail will it get there in three days?

Fat Woman with Dirty Feet in Dirtier Sandals: Here’s a tip: have your package packed and addressed prior to getting to the window. You had plenty of time in line. Heck, you probably had plenty of time at home. Indeed, since you are grossly and morbidly obese with the filthiest feet I have ever seen, only exceeded by those black sandals (which I think were originally white), I imagine that you have had nothing but idle time on your hands for the past decade or two, except when eating. Why wait until you get to the window to address your package? Oh? What’s that? You weren’t sure what state Indianapolis is in? Oh. I see. I bet your friends or family in Indianapolis simply toss your package as soon as it arrives at the house. I sure wouldn’t open anything from a fat fleabag like you.

Fat Guy with Dirty Overalls: Passport Application? Where in the hell do you think you are going? We had to stand and watch as you asked the clerk about what every question on the application meant, including County of Residence, and then watch as you started to fill in the form with what appeared to be a black crayon. I mean, seriously, do you really think the U.S. authorities are going to let you leave our country and travel abroad, where foreigners can see you? Our reputation is bad enough. Of course, it is possible that you were with Fat Woman with Dirty Feet, and so think you need the passport for travel to Indianapolis. I’m glad the clerk told you to move your butt and fill out the form elsewhere.

Middle-Age Woman with the Wool Hat: Did you have to look at EVERY damn sheet of stamps in the place? Stamps are used to put on envelopes for mailing. Just ask for a damn roll of stamps and take whatever the clerk feels like giving you (usually American Flag). We are sorry that the post office was out of “Quilts of America” stamps; we understand that your soul pined for these quilt stamps which you did not realize existed until you saw the picture of them in the glass case next to the counter. However, did you have to explain to the clerk why you like quilts? Did you honestly have to tell the story of the quilts your grandmother used to have and passed down to you, or that they were ‘airlooms’, or that one quilt takes 100 years to make? (I actually doubted that last statement of Middle-Age Woman with Wool Hat; it seems like a long time to make what is essentially a blanket).

Mexican-American Male with Relatives Back Home in Mexico: Jesus, how many money orders do you need? I’ve been standing here for 10 minutes while the clerk prepares money order after money order. THEN we have to wait while you address the dozen or so envelopes to put the money orders in. I guess I enjoyed, to a reasonable degree, how you suddenly could not understand one blessed word of English when the clerk asked you to step aside so the next customer could be waited on. Instead, we all watched as you painstakingly addressed each envelope to your relatives back in the Old Country (using, I think, the same black crayon as Fat Guy with Dirty Overalls).

Well-Dressed Gentleman with Briefcase: One Stamp? You literally stood in line for 30 minutes so you could check the postage on your envelope, only to be told you needed another 20 cents? And you paid with a Twenty? What the hell is going on?

Pregnant Woman with Hyper Child: keep your damn kid by your side. I do not appreciate your child doing a war dance in front of me, or staring at me like I am the freakiest thing she has ever seen (which rather unnerved me and was a blow to my self-confidence, given some of the people standing in line). I do appreciate that when you reached the window that all you wanted was a Change of Address card, which the clerk pointed out were in a basket on a nearby table. Ah well, at least your child got the opportunity to irritate fellow human beings.

Young Lady in Front of Me: You were pretty good-looking, so I was rather pleased that you were in front of me. I was also impressed, as I’m sure everyone in the post office was, that you are one of the few in this land of ours to have a cellular telephone and that you have friends to talk to on said phone. I wonder, what do your friends really think when you call them out of the blue, due to your being bored standing in line, and ask them ‘what are you doing’?, only to not wait for an answer but to dive right in into a detailed description of your day? Take it from me, no one cares what you had been doing for the past few hours, especially since you appear to lead an utterly shallow, pointless life (ok, good, so you got some damn overpriced coffee at a Starbucks and then went by the cleaners, only to find out they do not open until 10 a.m.). Plus, when you finally get up to the window, and mailed your manila envelope for $2.62, did you really have to pay with a damn credit card? You didn’t have three lousy bucks? Also, don’t you understand the difference between a credit card and a debit card? Is that why you asked the clerk “which is the one with the numbers” (I think she meant that you had to use a PIN number to activate).

Of course, when I got to the window the clerk spent five minutes trying to convince me to mail my book via next-day delivery instead of media mail. Meanwhile, the people in line behind me are glaring at me like I am holding things up. Sweet.

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