An Open And Somewhat Hostile Letter To My Dipshit Mailman

Dear dude that delivers my mail,

Are you high?

No, really. Are you? Because I can think of no other reason why you are so completely horrible at your job. I mean, you totally suck at it.

When we built our house six years ago, I was overjoyed to discover that my ‘hood utilized a safe and secure clusterbox system for the receipt of incoming mail. Accessible only by key, I’d never have to worry about valuable mail going missing due to the sticky fingers of a random, passing kleptomaniac or a roving band of marauding thirteen-year-old boys who think it’s hysterical to steal mail.

However, clusterbox notwithstanding, why the hell are you so incompetent Mr. Postman? I understand that you may have a substance abuse problem but there are plenty of 12-step programs to assist you in kicking whatever it is you’re smoking/drinking/huffing while on the job. There are like, sponsors and everything.

And lest you think I’m being a total bitch, let me list the ways in which you suck.

Three years ago you failed to deliver the tax returns that my accountant lovingly prepared. No worries though, you sent them to my neighbor and she was nice enough to walk them across the street to me. Fine. Whatever. At that point I put you on probation, but no real harm done.

However, a few months later a four-figure check destined for me was delivered to yet a different neighbor. I sensed a pattern developing and I WAS NOT A FAN. Luckily, my neighbor is one of my best friends so the check made its way to me safely. I cursed you, but I got over it.

But then, THEN! you misplaced another check a week ago (this one also containing 4 figures) and the only reason I knew about it is because the sender of said check called me up and said, “Yeah, the check I tried to send you just got returned. It says on the front that there’s no such address.” I expect this bullshit from MapQuest but not you, Mr. Postman, considering you drive by my house and cram a bunch of unwanted mail into my clusterhole every damn day. For instance, I don’t seem to miss out on a single issue of the American Girl catalog, therefore Veruca Salt Lauren continues to announce, loudly, upon spotting it: “I want another American Girl doll Mummy and I want it now!” (pretend you read that last line with an English accent. DO IT!). Also, the eleventy-billion requests Discover Card has been sending since 1991 appear on a daily basis as do 47,000 advertisements for car insurance and 97 carpet cleaning coupons. So it’s not like you aren’t capable of putting my mail in slot #3. You totally are.

And you know what else? I’m tired of getting “Gary’s” mail every day. Though “Gary” starts with the same consonant as both of my last names, mixing our mail together all willy-nilly because there are some “G’s” sprinkled on it is a quality control fail of the sloppiest kind. I mean, isn’t sorting the mail according to our names kind of the number one thing in your job description? You have managed to turn my safe and secure clusterbox into something else entirely. I have given it a new name and trust me when I say I am *not* amused.

So consider this your final warning. I’m watching you, and if I see your little Cheech and Chong mail truck making its way down my street belching little puffs of dooby-smoke, the floor littered with Cheetos and Twinkie wrappers, I will chase you down and stab you with my kitchen scissors thus giving new meaning to the phrase “going postal”.

However, if you can straighten up and fly right (and put down the giant bong), I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.

Peace out,

Tracey