I finally have a permanent mailing address again, for the website, etc. If you recall, I threw a hissy-fit inside the local post office about a year ago, and have never set foot in the place again. That’ll show ’em! I told the postmaster she could stick it up her ass, turned on my heel, and exited in a dramatic fashion. If I’d been wearing a scarf, I would’ve tossed it over my shoulder, for emphasis.
Yeah, it felt good. But as I was making my way to the car, I realized I might’ve shot myself in the foot. What would I do now? How would I receive my weekly advertising packets from GoDaddy? And my Domino’s coupons addressed to “Boxholder?” This is important stuff.
But I’m back in business, and check out the name of the so-called town where I’ll be picking up my mail. The new address is at the bottom of the page. Heh. That post office is literally a mobile home. And not a very well-maintained mobile home, either. But, they have boxes available for rent, and I took ’em up on it.
I’m trying to maintain… but they’re already pissing me off. Tell me if I’m the problem.
I went over there on Monday, before I left for work. It’s difficult to carve out time for such things, but I made arrangements, and went to rent a new P.O. Box. Closed! Freaking Columbus Day! Seriously?! That’s not a real holiday. Grrr… My blood pressure was on the upswing before we’d even gotten started.
A couple of days later I returned, and it was pouring rain. I ran up on the rickety deck of the mobile home, my feet nearly flew out from under me, and I was muttering profanities as I entered the trailer.
But I needed to be nice… I told the woman at the window what I wanted, and she handed me a multi-page application. Then she informed me I’d need two forms of identification. Isn’t that racist? I thought asking for ID is racist? One could be a driver’s license, she said, but the other one had to be an item from a bizarre list of things, which she indicated on the app. Things like rental agreement, or mortgage paperwork. WTF??
So, I had to leave, once again, with my business still not completed. You see how it goes? It’s bullshit. I ran back to my car, through the horizontal rain.
Finally, on my third visit to the camper (or whatever), I was able to get my new address. And the woman was trying her hardest to complicate matters further. Are they trained to do that? “Will anybody else be picking up mail from this box? If so, I’ll need their ID, as well…” Also, something about packages. Who the hell knows? But I frustrated her by keeping it simple. I could tell it made her nervous, this straightforward approach, but we got ‘er done.
So, tell me… am I the unreasonable one? Some of you have said I’m too tightly wound, and full of rage. But why does everything have to be so goddamn difficult? Why so much red tape? It’s unnecessary. I thought they were going to ask me to roll the tip of my penis across an ink blotter, and provide a legible dick-print, before they handed over the keys. It’s stoopid.
Another thing that annoys me: Those fancy new self-serve soda machines that offer something like a hundred options. They have two of them at Moe’s, where I had lunch with the younger hooligan on Saturday.
It’s not a good idea to give the general population more choices. It really isn’t. People are dumbasses, generally speaking, and just stand in front of those things with their mouths hanging open. And they have a touch screen, which still befuddles a good 40% of humanity, even in 2014. Just push the Coke logo, asshole, and put your cup under there!! It’s maddening.
Also, I went to get a haircut on Friday, and walked out of the first place. There was nobody there, the joint was totally empty. But they asked me to sign in, and said they’d be right with me. So, I took a seat and waited.
And some woman arrived and told the person behind the desk she wanted to bring her mother in, who was in her 90s and in a wheelchair. She can’t move her neck on account of the fusion, or the bunching, or something. I wasn’t paying close attention. But a crowd formed, and every employee was now involved in this conversation. “We could wheel her in backwards, maybe, and set her up at Station 1… What do you think, Tina? Or maybe send her in on a zip-line of some sort…”
It went on and on, and there were five women involved. All yammering simultaneously. I was grinding my molars, and finally had enough. I got up and left. Nobody protested, or even noticed, probably.
I went to another haircut place nearby, and the woman who worked there had a tiny dog in the shop with her. The thing weighed eight pounds, she said, and it lunged at me, and tried to bite me. Twice. The little bastard doesn’t know how close it came to being booted straight through the 1974 paneling on the rear wall of that dump.
Finally… on Sunday Toney and I went to see Gone Girl. I hadn’t been to a movie in God knows how long, but it was a cold and rainy day… so we went. And a couple sat right behind us, even though the place was half-empty, and never stopped eating. Through the entire movie they were eating, and making mind-bogglingly stupid comments.
There was much slurping, and chomping. It sounded like a goddamn horse going to town on a basket of carrots back there. And they didn’t understand the movie, were constantly confused… I was about to come out of my skin. It’s not exactly an art film, you lip-smacking idiots!
So, tell me: is it just me? I reject the notion, of course, but maybe you have a different view on the matter.
Have a great day, my friends!
I’ll see you again soon.
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