The Journal of Joe The Peacock. Yay.

7.20.2004:

2:29 PM

You know what I hate?

Well, yeah, a lot of things. You're right. But you know what I didn't used to hate but as of yesterday really, really, really do?

No, not oatmeal.

No, not Zamphir, either. Well, yeah, I do kinda hate Zamphir, but I've always hated him. What a ridiculous person, playing pipes and bouncing around like an orangutang eating baker's chocolate. Something should be done about him. But no, I'm not referring to him, I'm referring to the steaming, festering pile of ashen, remorseless charred-out hollow embers that was once a caring, feeling United States Postal Service.

Yeah, that's right Post Office, I'm talking about YOU.

YOU, who somehow misplaced my 12 month rental payment that I paid in MARCH on my PO Box, yet somehow still allowed me access to it all this time until yesterday, when you locked it.

YOU, who held within said box the mail that was inside, among which was no less than 7 checks from outstanding invoices that I have been counting on to eat.

YOU, who employs the dastardly bitch with the 7-inch fingernails who literally held the mail in my face, waving it around in front of me while me telling me in-between loud smacks of gum in a language what could ALMOST be considered English, "I'm sorry, if your box has been locked due to non-payment, we have to return this mail to the sender," then turned around and - PLOP - dropped it right into the little bin marked "FUCK JOE."

And YOU, who took nearly 3 hours to complete this little circus, causing me to have to explain all of the above to a boss who really didn't need to hear any of this from me.

I hate you, United States Postal Service.

I hate you.

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