Yesterday morning, my doorbell rang at about 7:00. They guy at the door told me that his wife had hit my mailbox and that he was sorry and would be back that afternoon to fix it. It didn’t tear it completely down, but tore up the actual box part pretty good. The mail in our neighborhood runs around 2:30 or 3:00 in the afternoon. When I got home from work there was a form inside my smashed mailbox, along with the door to my mailbox, from our mail-person. It was left to inform and admonish me that my mailbox was smashed and would need to be fixed post-haste.
Well, thanks a lot Captain Obvious! I really appreciate that! Geez, what did this guy think I had done? Stood out in my yard with a baseball bat and beat the snot out of my own mailbox just to spite him?
Has he stumbled across the details of my diabolical plan to make his life miserable by making him turn the mail sideways so it will fit into my somewhat flat mailbox? Curses! If it hadn’t been for those meddling kids…
Come on man! It had been seven hours! I had to go to work. I don’t keep extra mailboxes in my hall closet. Don’t I get at least a day or so to actually go and buy another mailbox and put it back on the post before I’m lambasted for having a mailbox that isn’t up to USPS code? Contrary to what you might think, I didn’t ask the lady down the street to be sure she takes my mailbox out on her way to work. Take a chill pill, Bill, and I promise you it’ll be fixed. Wouldn’t want you to be inconvenienced for another 12 hours. Forgive me, mailman. Please forgive me.