I was going to single out a single branch of the USPS but then I remembered that the woman who works at the one back home is a royal bitch too and then post office in DC is a fucking nightmare and so I’m going to keep this simple.
I hate you, United States Postal Service. Despise. I’m hissing at you and trying to light you on fire with my eyes. I’m also googling whether or not it’s even legal to talk trash about you because I feel like the U.S. holds you on a this tiny, pathetic pedestal in an attempt to save you from being shut the fuck down and I’m sure I’m going to get some super serious notice about treason and being nice to postal workers but RAISE YOUR HAND IF YOU DON’T GIVE A FUCK? Mmm, pick me, pick me.
Before I get into how the postal people tried to break me and make me cry today, I will give you my initial thoughts on customer service. Having been a waitress for at least 6 years of my life, I know how important it is to smile and be nice to people while you do your job. I know that if you want respect, you need to give it. I also know that people who treat you like shit get their steaks spit on and their bread shoved in pubes, but that’s a waitressing thing. I’m not sure what the equivalent of how you’d try to screw me at the post office is but tossing my packages in the trash might be it. Anyway. This paragraph is to let you all know that I am certainly well aware of acceptable public behavior when dealing with people in the customer service/hospitality industry.
But fuck these people. Seriously. First of all, they really put in an effort about what? Three months a year during various holidays? The rest of the time you stand around with your hands down your pants, proving to the world that you laugh at the thought of a sense of urgency while selling books of stamps to old ladies that still send birthday cards. That’s in between government holidays, which are plentiful. Tough life.
So today. These motherfuckers I think are just trying to set me off. Honestly. Here is my newest POST OFFICE FAIL.
I walk in with three packages for my family (you’re welcome) that are nicely wrapped in kraft paper, my taxes AGAIN (oops, didn’t sign them) and a magazine renewal. I knew it’d take at least 45 minutes in the black hole of moving slower than death. I look around for the customs forms. Shocking, there are none. I ask the woman next to me and she says they’re out.
“Excuse me,” I say to the man at the counter while he helps someone out, “Do you have any more customs forms?” He eyes me and waits at least three minutes pretending to pretty up packages until he answers me. Then he points to the empty bin where the forms belong.
Apparently not only is he fucking toothless, he’s fucking blind.
“You’re out.” I say being very, very patient except that my head is starting to pound and my foot is trying to tap but I won’t let it.
“How many do you need?” He is clearly hoarding all of the customs forms behind his stupid weight machine and I fucking want a stack of them so I can pre-write the rest of my slips for the rest of the year so I never have to spend more than one minute in this place again EVER.
“How many can I have?” These people hang on to customs forms like the Thai place hoards their peanut sauce. Jesus FUCK, just give me what I want.
“You can only have the number of boxes you have.” He hands me three, so he obviously saw my boxes so WHY MUST YOU FUCK WITH ME?
After filling out the forms, I stand in line, not able to see because my boxes are stacked so high and my forearms are shaking. I see all three workers–Toothless Joe, Berny Mac’s cousin and the harmless one that is just hated because I hate the rest, all eye me and slightly smile because they know there’s not one thing I can do but stand there and shake around and attempt not to create a scene. I want to shank them all, I thought as I listened to them carry on about last week’s games, which I knew held a great deal of importance to them as two out of the three were wearing football jerseys like a bunch of assclowns.
When Toothless Joe took me at the counter, I smiled and asked kindly that all my packages be mailed priority.
“We ain’t taking those packages.” Awesome use of grammar and flexibility. “They got scotch tape on them.” This man was a genius.
No shit, it’s all I had to tape them with. Apparently scotch tape is a no-no and I ask for some tape.
“Could I please have some acceptable tape, then?” He was really pushing it with this tape discrimination.
“We don’t have any.”
“Well you are the post office. I find that hard to believe.”
“So you want me to take the boxes back?” I was going to light them on fire in the parking lot if they had to leave this door.
A man standing behind him, someone a bit older and seemingly a bit nicer spoke up, “Well, she said she wanted to ship priority. Give her some priority tape.”
I wrapped ugly priority tape all the fuck around my packages, making it especially ugly just to prove a point. About what? Hating the post office, of course.
I handed him the packages, still trying to smile and said thank you and handed him back his tape. These fuckers were not going to break me or make me get back in line behind the twenty new people who had shown up.
And then it happened.
The seemingly nice old man with the barely there white spikey hair and glistening pink head, pointed teeth and fleece vest tried to make my head explode.
“Are those flat rate packages you packed your stuff in and wrapped them in brown paper?” Well, what do we have here, Captain Nosey? I was previously unaware that this was a postal offense, probably one punishable by jail, but his tone let me know he was on to me.
“I don’t know. I didn’t wrap them all.” That was a lie, because I knew two of them were flat rate boxes and I did wrap them all. He was not going to win this battle, though. I am Ms. Fight the Man and he would be the next to fall.
“I think they’re all flat rate boxes. You need to pay the flat rate for them and you can’t hide them in brown paper.”
“Well you can’t be sure they’re all flat rate boxes and by yours you mean the USPS and I’m 100% positive that one isn’t.” I pointed to the one box I was willing to bet was not a flat rate box.
“How do you know it’s not?” He would just not fucking let this flat rate shit go. There were now twenty-five people behind me, not so silently wishing me death and he was going to have a pissing contest with me about these fucking boxes.
“Because it had champagne in it days ago and then I drank ALL OF IT and then I threw a bunch of stuff in it and wrapped it all up in the brown paper I use as a decoration, not so much a super secret flat rate box hiding device. And unless you want to unwrap all of my boxes, take out all the gifts and throw them out, I think I’ll pay the HIGHER priority price I asked for originally and we’ll call it even.”
Toothless Joe kept stamping away and wasn’t making eye contact but he’s shifty like that anyway. The bald one stared straight through me and started to get red in the face which meant I WAS WINNING.
I smiled sweetly at the toothless wonder and asked him for some Christmas stamps, preferably ones with something Christmas-y on them but when he handed me Jesus stamps, I handed them back.
“I said Christmas-y.” Then I sighed, took my receipts and left that nightmare establishment.
Fuck the post office. Seriously.