Sunday, October 5, 2014

Dear Tee Fury

When I saw your special "Mystery Grab Bag T-Shirt Sale", I liked my odds.  There were no less than three Supernatural shirts, a couple of Cap tees, and an Arrow tee.  In fact, looking through the assortment of possible shirts I might be sent, I saw only a few I would refuse to wear.  So, of course, when the shirt finally arrived, I got one of those.  It was from a program I have never seen, it was a brown shirt, which I don't wear, and the graphic was not even ironically bad.  So, I decided that this shall not be.  I was informed that I could have store credit should I mail the shirt back.  From postage receiving and returning, I would have already doubled the cost of the shirt, but now it was a matter of principle, so I geared up and drove down to the post office.

It seems I've grown rusty in my post office savvy in the year or so since I stopped selling books over Amazon.  I was stupid enough to enter the dying den of government antiquity too close to the traditional mid day feeding hour, when the blue hair elderly clash with the blue collared working drones trying to mail off bills or candy or whatever the hell they have in those boxes.  I was briefly optimistic as I was able to get a spot directly out front, which seemed to be a good omen for low occupancy.  As I entered the dimly lit, wood trimmed dungeon of a building, I was proven wrong.  at least six people stood before me in line, and a procession of more ambled up the sidewalk.  I quickly jumped into place ahead of the oncoming rabble, right behind a tiny Asian girl bopping along to her Ipod.  That was the most I would move for the next ten minutes.

Despite there being six spaces at the counter for agents, only two were on duty.  The one to the very far left was a woman so elderly and tiny I could only make out the top of her bob haircut.  The other woman was more imposing, with a combination beehive/weave that was strategically dyed red in places so that she resembled some sort of bored government cheetah with press on nails.  This was made more amusing by the fact that she instead moved with all of the urgency and grace of a dying, drugged sloth that also hated being a mailperson.  I sat there, sandwiched between an old man whose socks were pulled up so far that they actually complemented his shorts to make them full pants, and the tiny Asian girl blaring Cyprus Hill's "We Ain't Going Out Like That" over her headphones.  She was mistaken.  We had no choice in our fate.  We were at the mercy of the post office.

Finally, I made it to the front of the line.  The sloth/cheetah, whose handlers apparently had named her Ronaea according to her name tag, took my package, then told me to answer the questions on the LED screen.  As I did, she tapped her hideous claws upon the desk, then asked how I wanted.  I swiped my card, and nothing happened.  She glared at me, then slowly drawled out, "You wait for me.  Now you go."  Swipe, nothing.  "Swipe again."  I do so, and again nothing.  "I'ma back out, then you swipe again." This happened four more time, intoned with all the fervor of a WASP couple married for 30 years having obligatory birthday sex.  Finally, she hit the right button, and I was able to pay. 

I am still waiting, Tee Fury, to get confirmation of that store credit.  Halloween is coming soon, and I could use a bitchin' Winchester Brothers shirt.  You owe me. 

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