My Evening

So, I'm headed home yesterday evening.

I need to stop at the Post Office for some stamps.

I hate the Post Office.

It is the most hideous display of inefficiancy and government slovency the world has ever had thrust upon its stage.

So, I'm waiting in line of about ten people. It's maybe 4:45 in the afternoon.

You know, the time of day when working stiffs like you and I just want to get home to have a beer, shake hands with the unemployed or play Jenga with the cat...you know what I'm talking about...fucking relax.

Being the overworked and driven to cram Americans we are, we tend to also "stop off" to attend to household tasks on the way home.

Hence my trip to the Postal Palace.

Of the two available postal employees, one is helping someone send an odd-shaped package to Houston, and the other, well the other should have told her customer to fuck off and come back tomorrow.

Occupying the time of one of two available employees is a hulking mound of rotted flesh inquiring about collector's stamps.

He wants to know

What are the ones on the wall?

Oh, What's the one with the dogs?

Oh, spay and neuter your pets, huh?

Hey Mr. Flabtabulous! The rest of us are trying to get home for the evening and have REAL BUSINESS to conduct here! Move it along or I'm going to neuter you!

Instead of appealing to her good senses and alluding to the growing line, the postal princess continues to help Flabby Collector by looking through books to see what stamps are coming out next year.

My number is finally called.

Great, I can proceed to the smiling geriatric attendant.

All I need is a roll of stamps.

This should take five seconds.

I tell her what I need and hand her my credit card.

"I'm sorry, I can't take your card. It isn't signed."

I start to protest, explaining that you're right, it isn't signed, that's because I want people to check my I.D..

I then remember that I'm talking to a tray-slapper and just flip the card over and sign it.

She takes the card and swipes it.

Does that make ANY fucking sense?

Oh, and later, Trixie and I went to eat Chinese buffet and were sitting in a booth behind a couple I'll call Brontosaurus and Triceretops.

He, festooned in jersey material shorts, revealing his shriveled sack, she adorned in pajama pants and a ripped t-shirt. Fat ankles all around.

The grunts, groans and waves of approval emitted loudly from the table throughout the meal's duration.

It was smooth sailing until, after her third tapioca pudding (I know, weird, huh? Chinese pudding?) and a dash to the General Tso's chicken that the couple hit a bump in the road.

She asked the waiter for a TO GO BOX.

When told she couldn't have one, she was indignant.

After all, she'd paid for the food she'd consumed over the past two hours (they were there when we arrived and when we left).

If I ever reach a state in my life where I'm

A) 75 years old and working at the Post Office
B) So fat I need a cane and ask for a TO GO BOX from a buffet

just drag me naked through the cobblestone streets of St. Louis.