At the Post Office

This is a true story of what I overheard today at the Randomville Post Office.

[tangent: I was there to mail a check to take some students to the state Thespian Conference, which the morning announcements people always pronounce, "ThezzzBian Conference," making it sound as much like "lesbian" as possible. And I always think to myself, That is a P! PUH! The guy's name was ThesPis, not ThesBis, DUMMIES. Of course, all during the rest of the day, I do variations on "Why, yes, our Southern Baptist administration TOTALLY APPROVED me to take some kids to the STATE LESBIAN CONFERENCE. Because the people in our town are so UNDERSTANDING of alternative lifestyles. And NOBODY would think twice about an educational setting, paid for by your tax dollars, which TEACHES KIDS TO BE LESBIANS." People are stupid, y'all.]

Anyway, I was writing out my envelope, and this woman totally STOMPS INTO the counter area and practically yells, "I want the name and contact information of the Postmaster General for this area!"

And the guy at the counter was like, "Um, okay. Let me go get that for you."

If it were me, I would have stopped right there, but this woman was not at all shy about her complaint:

This is the THIRD TIME my Playboy has been opened when I got it! (because there is a cover on it so people can't judge your mail, even though everybody totally knows what's in there. And though I didn't see it, I'm guessing that the cover had been ripped or something).

It only costs $26.95 a year; the person who's doing this could get a subscription if they want to read it that bad!

I'm going to have this post office investigated!

And, oh, I wanted to laugh so hard, but I had to pretend I wasn't listening, even though we were in a 10' by 10' room and she was SHRIEKING.

Man, I didn't know people were so protective of their Playboys.