Going to the Post Office

Today I had to mail some things. Since I enjoy small towns, a small town post office seemed like the thing to do. Normally the only people you see are the Postmaster and maybe Uncle Joe or Grandma Zelda. Today turned out much much different.

There was a young lady, 35 or so, having a heated discussion about postage, certified mail, and several other things I can't recall. While this was going on, I addressed the flat rate envelope. The phone rang:

Postmaster: "The party starts at seven."

pause

Postmaster: " Yes, bring your own beer."

pause

Postmaster: "No, no kids under twenty one. OK goodbye."

The discussion about how certified mail continues. In walks a young man, who looks at me, a customer, and asks if he can use the restroom. I tell him that I am not from town and don't work in the post office (this should have been obvious because I was standing in line).

He immediately interrupts the ongoing certified mail discussion when the phone rings again.


Postmaster: "The party starts at seven."

pause

Postmaster: " You can bring any kind of alcohol you want."

pause

Postmaster: "I don't think that would be a good idea."

The young man then asks to use the restroom and is told it is not a public restroom but there is a rest area about a mile outside of town. At this point, I think the kid was resigned to the fact that he was going to s*** his pants. He left.

Finally the certified letter lady gets the answers she want, but starts complaining about the cost! After a bit more discussion the transaction is completed.

I AM NEXT! Cool!

No, here comes Joe Cool Bob, asking about when the Pro Wrestlers are going to be in the big town down the road.

Postmaster: "A week from Sunday."

I paid my $4.95 and walked out the door. Relieved that I don't live here.