I'm starting to think the summer help at the dead-mouse-smelling post office has been listening to Genius. Not the Genius of now, who is safely separated from me, two hours away in College Town, becoming a heck of an engineer. No. I mean the Genius of pre-college days. That rapscallion who called me a short-temper cook, and dared command me to make him sandwiches while he lolled on the couch, perusing his phone, his sandwich-capable arms and legs atrophying while I stewed like primordial soup in a primitive crock pot.
I'm sure the dead-mouse-smelling post office commander in chief would not admit to having summer help. But I can't be fooled. You notice there's no such word as Valfoolery. That's why. I know there are different drivers for my rural route. Do I not venture to town each day for a 44 oz Diet Coke? I pass various vehicles stuffing mailboxes. Or turning around before they get to EmBee. Which would explain why some days, I get no mail at all.
Friday, our delivery driver was in an actual mail truck. The white Jeepy-looking kind that townie mailmen use. Not very common out here on two-lane blacktop. We usually have a Ford Ranger or a compact car with a magnetic sticker slapped on the tailgate or trunk, with the driver/mailman sitting on the wrong side. Which is pretty much illegal, according to The Pony. Of course, he didn't even get his driver's license until Christmas break, so perhaps he's not an authority. But he IS pretty smart in a book-learnin' kind of way, and if that's what he remembers from his study manual, I believe him.
Yeah, Friday's mail truck driver almost rammed into the side of T-Hoe coming out of a semi-circle drive at the top of the hill before our mailbox condo. Not a very observant fellow. But we DID get mail, and it was in good shape. Saturday, the mail was not there at 12:52 p.m. So I told The Pony to look for it when he came back from a trip to town to buy two plastic red cans of gas for Hick's tractor. The old green one. Not the newer blue one.
Here is one of the items he brought me.
Who IS our summer substitute rural carrier, anyway? Charlie Brown's friend Pigpen? How in tarnation can somebody get the mail dirty in between carrying it to their questionably-suited mail delivery vehicle parked on the concrete lot at the dead-mouse-smelling post office, driving it five miles out of town, parking on a blacktop road, and sliding it into the green-painted steel pipe that is EmBee?
Of course the piece of mail that was most damaged was the one that must double as the return envelope for my Sprint bill. I am not particularly impressed with my Sprint service, and no love is lost between me and their service technicians, but I am not like The Pony. I DO care what people think of me, even if the people are Sprint employees. I do NOT relish the thought of them receiving my soiled return envelope, and imagining that I used it to wipe my feces-encrusted anus. WAIT! Is that too graphic? Should I tone that down a little bit? Nah. You know what to expect here.
I see no end in sight to my mail delivery woes. If it ain't right, don't fix it. That's the motto of the USPS in this neck of the back roads.
In the same manner that Genius guaranteed me when I chastised him for taunting me without mercy, I'm sure the USPS, like Genius before them, WILL SHENAN AGAIN.