Next Stop: The Post Office

My daughter Averie, as many of you know, wants to be a comedy writer and absolutely LIVES comedy. She's the walking SNL trivia book and I daresay, I don't doubt for one second that she's going to be anchoring Weekend Update one day, joining the ranks of her hero(ine); Tina Fey. Averie is also in love with a comedian named Dane Cook. She tells me that he's her husband, he just doesn't know it yet. Same with Jimmy Fallon. Ditto Steven Lynch. I wonder if my daughter is Mormon. Whatever; I'm an Eddie Izzard girl myself (5/9/04 entry). Anyway, for the moment, Averie is Mrs. Dane Cook. Dane Cook calls the Department of Motor Vehicles "Satan's Asshole". I used to agree. Until Monday. Now I'm quite sure that the United States Post Office could give chase for the title. Wow, that was a long seque for a post office story.

So, I'm working my way down the TTD as you recall, and the next stop after my fingerprint/name scan at the police sub-station, is the post office. I've been knitting away like a little round knitting machine trying to beat the holiday rush and I have quite a few necks that I'd like to warm up with a soft, cuddly hug of yarn. Oh I'm sure you're thinking that it's all very sweet and benevolent of me. But you should know that it's all a part of my evil plan to cover the Earth with scarves while at the same time losing weight. The way I figure it, I should knit my way to a size 6 by NEXT Christmas. Yes, that's right, it's all about me. That being accomplished, I gotta get these puppies mailed, so off to our friendly USPS I go.

It's not yet reached the holiday frantic time there, but still, when you walk in the door you have to take a number and wait your turn. I pull my number tab and find that I'm number 96. They're on 82 right now, so I and my armful of packages take a seat and wait. The post office is much like an airport; great place to people-watch. This is usually a fun activity for me, but today will be one of those days I will shake my head and wonder where these freaks come from. I'm about to be sandwiched between some people who are in serious need of Paxil. In fact, I would have been inclined to offer them some of mine, but I'm trying to maintain the image of Evil World Dominatrix.

I'm sitting happily, watching the people come and go, and a good 15 minutes passes. Around about "Now Serving No. 93", a rather large gentleman (6'3", 275 lbs.) walks in with a box full of mail. He notices the "take a number" machine, pulls a tab, looks at it, sighs and grumbles. He also notices that there's a number on the floor, and he picks it up. Just then a postal worker calls out; "Number 94, please!" and our large, grumbly friend walks RIGHT UP to the window. Now my friends, please remember, people have been coming and going over the course of the 15 minutes I, and others, have been waiting. And this guy just walks right up because he happened to find a 94 on the ground. A few people watching start to whisper among themselves, and then, one of the customers goes over to the window and approaches Large Grumbly Man:

Postal Customer: Excuse me. But I saw you pick up that number off the floor. A lot of people were here before you and you really should be honest and take your proper turn.

Large Grumbly Man: Why? Do YOU have Number 94? No? I didn't think so. I do. No matter how I got it, I got it.

Postal Customer: That's really rude.

Large Grumbly Man: Deal with it. Now go sit down.

Okay, now my blood is starting to boil. It's one thing to cheat and know it, it's another thing to be a douchebag when someone points it out. Not only that, it's really bothering me that the postal clerk didn't say something to him when he saw there was a problem, he just took the number the guy presented. Meanwhile, number 95 has been called and then 96...me. I walked over to the woman that had the dispute with Large Grumbly Man and offered her my number. She smiled and thanked me, but she declined. I walked over to the window and found that I was the station next to Large Grumbly Man, still being helped with his big box of letters. The postal clerk helping me is making small talk. I keep my ear open and listen to a conversation between Large Grumbly Man and the clerk helping him:

LGM: (pointing at a fuzzy looking picture on the clerk's desktop) Cute dog.

Postal Worker: That's not my dog. That's my baby.

LGM: Damn.

Postal Worker: Something you want to say?

LGM: No. Does he favor your wife?

Postal Worker: What number did you have again?

LGM: 94

Postal Worker: Really? I can't seem to find it. What's that number you have in your hand?

LGM: I gave you my number. This isn't it. This is 03. It was just an extra.

Postal Worker: I'm sorry, you'll have to wait your turn.

LGM: You're kidding me, right?

Postal Worker: Sir, if you'd like to create a problem, I can call Security.

Large Grumbly Man decided to take his box and sit down. As the postal worker called out the next number, I leaned over and said, "That was great! I was hoping someone would do something." He winked at me, pointed at the picture and said, "Thank my dog. Good Halloween pic, huh?"

I'll never make fun of people who dress up their dogs for Halloween again.