I’m going to beat the living fuckin dog shit out of my mail man.
That’s right. That’s not a joke, or some ironic statement meant to arouse guffaws from you goddamn dolts. Every time I’ve spat those words from my mouth in the last month people react like it’s a big fuckin titter festival, like a buncha schoolgirls when a wintry breeze wafts its way up their twats. This shit is anything but funny, and I’m anything but laughing. I’m going to cave this cocksucker’s head in.
This twisted tale of a latent homosexual who has evidently bestowed himself the coveted title of World’s Toughest Mailman is quite a sordid one indeed. Several months ago, a local literary hero was thankfully able to move into his own house, and finally enjoy the now nearly rotting fruits of his excruciating labor. Immediately, the town blowjob factory, also known as the mail man, began scribbling all over several of my different envelopes in large, crude, caveman-like lettering to tell me to, “LABEL MAILBOX!”
Hmmm. Since this so-called “man” is clearly of mongoloid-like intelligence, perhaps he knows not of verbal communication consisting of lower-case letters and alternative punctuation. A pity really. I called the Post Office and inquired as to what the proper labeling should be. They informed me that since I live in a single house, and not an apartment building, only my house number is required to be displayed on my mail box, not my last name. Sounded simple enough.
Of course, my house number is clearly displayed on my actual fuckin house merely a foot above my mailbox, but having been swept up in the tide of euphoria that stems from not having to belittle myself in life by delivering mail for a living, I decided to mosey on down to White Trash Mart and pick up a couple sheets of numerical and alphabetical stickers anyway. I happily pasted my number on my mailbox and awaited the certain apish praise to follow. What I got was another desecration of yet another letter with the words, you guessed it, “LABEL MAILBOX!”
Double hmmm. Perhaps I should call down to the ol’ Post Office again. The following is a near-flawless re-creation of that very phone call.
Post Office Fag: “Hello?”
Me: “Yeah you’re fuckin mailman keeps writing all over my fuckin mail and I want this piece of shit to stop.”
Post Office Fag: “I–uh…”
Me: “The muthafucker keeps writing, “LABEL MAILBOX!” in big fuckin block letters and exclamation points. I called you assholes the other day, and you told me the only thing I had to display on my mailbox was my house number. Well I went to fuckin WalMart and labeled the fuckin thing and the cocksucker writes all over my mail again?”
Post Office Fag: “Well no, he shouldn’t be writing on your mail. If–”
Me: “I know he shouldn’t be writing on my fuckin mail! I want him fuckin to stop. I labeled my fuckin mailbox as much as I’m required to do, and that’s it.”
Post Office Fag: “Okay, uh–”
Me: “Okay!” (click)
Obviously the subtle approach seemed like the way to go, so I figured I was all done with this douchebag. Enter phase two: now I wake up to nine zillion letters cramming my fuckin mailbox to the brim every day that aren’t even for me. This piece of shit must have went through the last three or four residents at my house, and now he started delivering me their junk mail every goddamn day. I go down to the post office, an armful of horseshit in my arms, and explain to them that I’m the only person living in the house, and to please send their toilet paper elsewhere.
Then I wake up one day and now there’s fuckin trash in my muthafuckin mailbox.
I went ape shit.
I wrote a letter and pasted it on my mailbox that began with “Dear Fuckface,” then continued to get even more polite from there, culminating with an invitation to knock on my door and discuss the matter further. Next morning around 8 am, his knuckles had barely scraped plaster when I flung the door open and proceeded to bitch this Village People reject out more than any human being in the history of the planet. It was the verbal equivalent to what Patsy endured in Twelve Years A Slave. This cocksucker silently trembled and quivered on my porch like the gaping cunt he is, the only sounds to be heard other than my bellowing was the faint pitter-patter of piss drops running down his leg and dotting the ground. Realizing that no matter how over-the-top my berating was, the mailman’s gargantuan cunt lips were obviously going to block his efforts at defending himself physically, disgusted, I dismissed him from my porch, and he scurried away with his tail between his twat. Ahhh, I thought to myself while watching the peculiar trail of slime he left behind, problem solved.
Except the next morning, I’m in the midst of an all-time awful food-poisoning episode when I hear a knock at the door. I open it and who’s standing there but Clarice Starling and the whole fuckin Virginia police force. Well, not exactly, but some broad with a weirdo uniform and two—not one but two—patrolmen are at my fuckin door. What, pretell, the fuck is this about?
Cunty Cuntstein flashes a piece of paper in my face, “Did you write this?”
Recognizing my award-winning craftsmanship on the word “Fuckface,” I cheerfully answered, “I sure did.”
“Well,” Cunty retorted, “Blah bling blang bloo…” And suddenly all I heard was the unmistakable sound of Charlie Brown’s mom for several minutes as she droned on. Evidently, astonishingly, and unprovenly, my rather pleasant letter was written on the back of some goddamn page of some goddamn play that some goddamn idiot’s mom gave me years ago that I lied and said I’d read, then forgot about. Well, this particular page supposedly had a “Rather graphic” torture and murder scene, so the implication was that I was threatening to kill this fuckin mailman-ass nigga. Whup his ass, yes, murder him, umm, no. Although upon reflection, while it’s certainly justifiable, that would be a rather ridiculous overreaction. A simple maiming would suffice.
So I settle things with the Three Stooges on my porch then go back inside to enjoy violently spraying various liquids from every orifice for the next six hours. A month goes by with no incidents. Then I check my e-mail the other day to find that my car insurance has been cancelled. And my cable. And my electricity. Surprise, surprise, the notices apparently never made it to my mailbox…
I called Cuntarella, who gave me her card and said to do so if any other problems arose, informed her of the situation, faxed and e-mailed her all of the records from the three companies, and awaited her swift, lawful reply.
That was a fuckin week ago.
Me thinks it’s time for another one-on-one conversation…