Sure…but, maybe you’re in your local Walmart and you’ve waiting in line for twenty minutes to purchase stamps. Sure…maybe there‘s some ignorant shoppers wandering about. Sure…the old lady greeting customers smells like she needs her diaper changed. Sure…you’re just having one of those “I don’t really wanna be in f –ckin Walmart buying stamps right now,” kinda days.
But hey… after twenty minutes of standing in a line behind stinky-Bob and his dripping arm pits, or standing in front of Shana nay whom you’re pretty positive is a tranny, after she says hello provocatively in a deep male voice… it’s finally your turn. Yup…it’s your turn to stand in front of the register while Heather yaps on the phone to whoever the f-ck she’s yapping too. And they’re talking about boys. And she’s crying. And you’re a boy. And she notices this. And now she’s glaring at you…because you’re a boy (errr…in my case a man, but she really was talking about boys). Long story short… they don’t have any stamps.
So if you’re me, and you’re not, but just pretend that you are for a moment, which means you need to think all paranoid, like the whole world is caving in on you… So, if you’re me, you’d think she was holding back the goods all because you’re a boy! Which she’s not, but you’re a paranoid a-shole who asks for miserable, under paid managers at Walmart so you can ask where the f-cking stamps are because you’ve been standing in line for twenty f-ckin minutes and you feel entitled to them!
Then the manager informs you that not only do they not have any stamps, but they’ve never carried any. Then Heather Scoffs at you; gnarls her lips; and evil-eyes you. Oh…and do you remember my comment about paranoia, and the whole world being out to get you? Well…everyone really is starring at you as you walk out the front door trying to save face and look cool, but really you look like you’re squeezing you’re a-s cheeks so tight your head is gonna pop off! And you’re blushing. And your lips are trembling while you hold back tears of humiliation (this last parts all you Bro… I tend to strut like George Jefferson, and never cry like I have two daddies…Rambo, and Chuck Norris!…hell yeah!).
So there you are. Afraid that your significant other is gonna think you’re an idiot. You wise up and do what you’ve should’ve done in the first place; go to your local Post Office.
[Maybe if every f-ck up was this valuable, I'd be a bazillionare by now]
On way to the Post Office; you’re cut off by one of those Smart Cars; flipped off by a homeless person for no apparent reason (but hey…at least he was smiling when he did it…him and his two teeth); and as you pull into the parking lot you’re stopped by an elderly women walking past…very, very slowly, thus causing the rear of your vehicle to hang out on the street blocking traffic. Now the whole city is honking at you for not running her over so they can get to where ever it is they need to get to.
Once inside, you check your P.O. Box on the slim chance that you’ll have thousands of fan letters pouring onto the floor. And they’re all from beautiful women. And they’re all sending you money, and cookies and pictures of them while they bake you the cookies. But no; it’s empty. It’s empty because people that write fan letters don’t listen to your music. It’s empty because you just got the d-mn box a couple of months ago for a new project no one even knows you’re in! -sighs-
So you close the empty box and head over to the front desk. The buildings empty except for the post woman…and you. As you approach the station she glares at you and points to the sign that reads [please wait your turn here]. So you wait. And you wait; still waiting. While you’re waiting might I add that YOU’RE THE ONLY ONE IN THE MOTHER F-CKIN POST OFFICE! And you wait some more. And she calls on you “Next.”
Now she’s smiling at you and she smells kind of familiar, but not old Walmart lady in soiled diapers familiar, and not clinically insane postal lady familiar, but kind of a cross between cheese, and baby powder. So you ask to buy some stamps, and she tells you they don’t have any.
The Post Office of the United States of America does not have any stamps. “Well go f-ck myself,” you blurt. “Excuse me,” she replies. You sigh, turn around, and with all of the attitude of a 5 year old girl, you walk out. And you’re not walking like George Jefferson, but more like that 5 year old girl after mommy told her she can’t have the new Breast Implant Barbie.
End note…A Post Office out of stamps is like a KFC out of chicken. It’s just not supposed to happen.
-Cog
[I don't know who made this pic, but It would be a better explanation then anything the Post Office could come up with]
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