I come to more fully understand the term going postal. It has less to do with disgruntled postal workers and their access to firearms, than with the effects the fat bureaucratic fucks have on the rest of the planet.

“I’m sorry, but I send letters like these every week, and I am never required to fill out customs labels for them all.”

“Well, I’m sorry too, but I’ve worked here for 11 years and I say you are going to put a customs tag on each one, or they aren’t getting sent anywhere.”

Now being the gutless worm that I am, I felt compelled to say: Right. Not from here they’re not, and exit before getting arrested for saying:

11 years?!? No wonder you’re on your little power trip, you fat bitch. Do you think your the first grossly overweight postal worker I’ve come across who likes to make life difficult for the rest us because you’re too god-damned sorry for the shitty way your life has turned out, and the fact that you clearly have neither the brains, the energy (which is no doubt being used up by trying to cope with your fucking appetite) nor the talent to go and do something more interesting with your measly little fucking existence. Fuck off! Consider yourself lucky there’s a sheet of plexiglass between us, or I’d be trying to tear that smug fucking grin right off your face. Bitch!

Rather than waste my time filling out unnecessary customs labels, I’ll just waste it on needless – but satisfying – rants.


~ by Gethin A. Lynes on September 24th, 2008.

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