Handle with Care
the commune's Omar Bricks wants his 34 cents back 

Monday, Jan. 7, 2002
It seems like every time you buy a box to mail something in these days, it comes with the phrase “Handle with Care” pre-printed on the side. And I have to wonder, am I paying extra for this? And even further so: what the hell's wrong with the postal service that they need special instructions not to beat the shit out of your package with baseball bats or feed it through the air intake of a jet engine? I want to print out a sticker that says “No, you know what? Don't handle with care. Drop kick the goddamn thing if you want to. It's not like I'm mailing eggs or something. Jesus Christ, what are you people, gorillas?” But to make this legible the sticker would have to be so big that mailing any package it would fit on would probably be cost prohibitive.

And you just know that if I went to all the trouble to get the sticker spell-checked and printed up and all that, it would practically guarantee that my mailman would make it his personal mission to fuck up my packages something good from then on. I already caught him backing his truck over a box of sausages I ordered once, and that was before I'd even done anything to piss the guy off. I haven't even had time to brainstorm on what he'd dream up to do to my poor packages should he ever get some serious motivation.

Personally, I'm not even sure if the Postal Service is an actual federal employer, or if they're just some kind of well-organized religious cult of some sort. The more I think about it, I'm leaning toward door number two. I mean, what kind of federal agency delivers you a letter that's crumpled into the shape of an accordion, stained brown, and stamped with the words “Damaged in Handling at the Post Office”? No shit, huh? Thanks for the stamp, otherwise I might have thought freemasons were fucking with my mail. That's a real load-off.

Whatever their bizarre cult is all about, I think it definitely involves cloning. I've developed a theory over the years that there are only two actual people working at the post office, no matter where you go, and all of the other employees are just clones of these two. See if this sounds familiar: there's a lady there behind the counter who looks like she'd rather cough up a spiny blowfish than offer you any assistance. She has no answers to any of your questions, no explanation for how your package caught fire en-route or why it was doused with moose urine afterwards, and no discernable pulse. Her co-worker is a scary older version of Mr. Rogers who's suicidally chipper and possibly made out of an advanced plastic polymer. He's too eager to help you and you check in your back seat and under your car twice before you drive home.

If real federal agencies, like the police, were this inept, we’d all be long-dead by now. Have you ever had the postal service lose a package you mailed? They have you fill out a form describing what was in the box and where you mailed it from, which I think was only for my benefit as I’m fairly sure they just took it in the back room and threw it away. What am I supposed to think they’re going to do with it? Rustle up the bloodhounds so they can catch the scent? Have a couple of slow-witted guys in hats drive the route all night with flashlights, scratching their heads? I should have made a copy of the form, just in case it got lost somewhere on the way to postal headquarters deep in the underwater city of Atlantis. I wouldn't trust these guys to get my trash to the curb.

I have it on good authority that this cult has been raising their funds by creating all of the junk mail in the world themselves. I mean, who the hell in their right mind tries to sell dog-sized hockey masks through the mail? I've received three offers for those this week alone. This definitely sounds like the work of an organization that thinks raising stamp prices one penny a year is a smarter idea than just jacking them up a dime and leaving us alone for a decade or so. I think I’ve got at least one of every one-cent stamp ever made, including the rare misprint of the Norman-Rockwell mailman toting an AK-47.

Any way you slice it, I’m done with the postal service. Those jokers have dropped my parcels in shit for the last time. I’m going to find some dumb little kid with a bike for all of my package and letter delivery needs in the future. Kids have two distinct advantages over the postal service when it comes to delivering things: they have no concept of geography and they think a quarter is a lot of money. So the next time you’re on the highway and you see some flat-topped little moron with a package strapped to his back, pedaling his way toward Maryland, give a honk and a wave. Unless he’s walking his bike or sitting under a tree or something, then give him a smack for Omar because I don’t tolerate slacking on my dime and three nickels. Bricks out.