Article Title
Article Title

Nothing Better

by Your Local Postman

As we wind down for the holidays, The Inclusive will feature the best pieces from 2011. This gives you an opportunity to read some pieces you might not have otherwise seen, and it allows our staff to, y'know, hang out for a bit.

This piece was originally published October 11th. This piece is written by a contributor who also happens to be an honest-to-god post officer, as verified by the editor. It's probably best you hear their side of the story every now and then, yeah?

Ed note: This is an actual dispatch from an actual postal worker, one of the few and proud dropping off your Netflix envelopes, shipments from Amazon, and the numerous bills that you really shouldn't be getting anymore; transfer over to paperless already, jeez. While this specific postal worker is not indigenous of Native America, one can imagine the struggle is all the same. Take heed, folks - they do deliver holiday cards from Grandma. Their power is great. Appease them.

Dear Householder,

There now follows a list of things I hate that I didn't know I hated this time last month. Even though my tongue is partly in my cheek, this is likely to get quite sweary, so those of you with nervous dispositions look away now.

1. 'Crazy Paving' leading to your front door isn't crazy, it's dangerous. They're nothing but badly cut concrete blocks poorly placed on mud, surrounded by gravel. Thanks for the sprained ankle, dick.

2. Townhouse dwellers, get over yourselves. It's a fucking terrace. You do not need a gate separating your one-and-a-half paving slabs of yard from the villainy and scum of the streets at large. Much less do you need a sign on that gate pleading for it to be closed. It isn't like your cattle will escape and run amok, now is it?

3. Not having a visible number on your front door or wall does NOT give you a little bit of freedom and anonymity amongst the bland, uniform dreariness of your home's surburban setting. It DOES give you a much greater chance of getting the wrong mail. Here's how it works:

Flick through mail in hand whilst walking towards your house, checking that the next one...two...three letters are for the same house number. Flick forward through letters making sure there's nothing deeper in the pile for your house because I'll be damned if I want to walk down your driveway twice. While this is happening, lose track of the last house number I delivered to. Get halfway down your drive, notice the abundance of blank wall, and remark to myself "the bastards haven't got a number on their house." Leave drive, go next door to calculate your house number. Walk back to your house. Walk to door. See number that was cunningly hidden by hanging basket/"hilarious" house nameplate/cruelty/idiocy. Curse God and houseowner.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

4. Listen, it's time to face facts. You couldn't afford a house with a big enough driveway for your car. If I have to squeeze past, that presents me with a choice. Do I risk scraping your paintwork with the zipper on my coat, or do I risk scraping my testicles on your wall? Hmmm...

5. If you have recently bought a new front door with a letterbox lower than crotch height, you're an arsehole. Just because you bought that nice detached place courtesy of the sweat of the working man, it doesn't mean he's prepared to kneel to deliver your copy of 'Underbites Weekly'.

6. Dogs. Fucking shitehouse arsehole dogs.

7. The stupid questions.

Q. "Why is my copy of 'Horse Groomers Bi-monthly always torn?"

A. That's because you mail order an A4 magazine, yet you have an A6 sized mailbox, dipshit.

Q. "Why have you rung my doorbell to give me this oversize parcel? My usual postman, Bob, knows I like to have them crammed into my back passage"

A. Well, your usual postman, Bob, sometimes has to take his children to the doctors, or his dog to the vets, and sometimes he manages to get enough overtime to save up and take his children on holiday. When this happens, we don't let your stupid impulse eBay and catalogue purchases pile up until Bob returns, we send someone like me to deliver them in Bob's absence. You don't appear to have a little handwritten sign that mentions your back passage at all, and if I was I mind reader I'd be scamming idiots in Las Vegas, not a fucking postman in England.

If none of the above applies to you, then

THANKS,

YOUR POSTMAN.

(Adorable image courtesy of brokinhrt2)

Your Local Postman is, in fact, an actual postman. How friendly or local he is really depends on degrees. He is a nice chap otherwise, but god only knows how terrible this position must be for someone with a soul. The Postman also introduced me to WU LYF, so that's pretty cool. You can contact him using the Royal Mail.