Okay, where's Pietro, where is he? He cost me a night of dancing... and other ancillary pleasures and now I'm gonna show him the real meaning of police brutality!
In accordance with my normal compassionate, helpful and giving personality I went to the post office yesterday to once again send him his $12,000 worth of custom made juice. My fool proof plan depended on the assumption that the vast, vast majority of holiday shippers had already mailed their packages and that the post office would as deserted as a Tiny Tim concert. Well, the fool part was right, and I was the fool.
My first clue was the contingent of SWAT adorned officers directing traffic into the parking lot and their liberal use of both pepper spray and rubber bullets on those drivers who balked at their instructions. I was shocked and speechless at the sight of this violent and unnecessary display of ineptness... why weren't they using real bullets!
After waiting in the traffic jam long enough to necessitate ordering two delivery pizzas, an emergency shot of insulin and a call to a tow truck for a delivery of twenty-gallons of diesel I was finally directed to a parking spot just wide enough for a bicycle, sans training wheels.
After climbing out the driver's window of the truck and rolling the drum of juice out of the bed I made my way to the end of the line which numbered the same amount as soldiers just home from a combat deployment waiting to get into a free Toby Keith concert featuring naked Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders as back-up singers. My already low appreciation of Pietro started to wan.
At 10:23PM a post office employee announced that those not already in line would not be served. This did not go over well since the line of cars still waiting to get into the parking lot looked like the last scene in Field of Dreams. Many shouts of discontentment were quickly silenced with .... strokes from M-16 armed SWAT officers. As can be expected there was a mad rush by uninjured line standers to retrieve gayly wrapped packages from their unconscious owners. (I got a really nice new winter coat, scarf and knitted watch cap. (Kay, you can cancel my order for a hat, I don't need it know. I'm sure the elderly lady who tried to pull the package out of my hand will pull through her hip replacement surgery just fine. Hopefully her insurance will also pay for her new dentures. Scrappy little devil she was, especially for being on a walker and lugging around that oxygen tank.)
At 3. 18AM I was motioned forward to the counter by a less than cheery postal employee. I was a bit encouraged when I glanced at one wall and saw his picture depicting him as employee of the month. My momentary enthusiasm was quickly dashed upon the rocks when I glanced at the opposing wall and noticed a picture of a person wanted for serial killing... it was the same person.
I rolled Pietro's drum of juice to the counter and announced that I would like to send it in the most expeditious manner possible. He very politely asked if I owned either a map or a GPS since I'd probably one of them during my drive to Arizona. (It was at this precise moment that I started to wonder if this vaping thing really isn't overrated.)
I calmly explained that I was old and could no longer drive in the dark so he sold me 237 books of stamps. The people in line behind me were not particularly pleased while I took the time to stick each individual stamp in line with its predecessor.
Once the task was completed, and after I had filled out the forms for shipping hazardous waste I queried the employee if the drum would get there before Christmas. He leaned across the counter and motioned me to come closer then whispered in my ear, "there's only one thing you can do that'll give this a chance in hell of getting it there before spring but it won't do you any good... you're not allowed to pray in a federal building. NEXT!"
Needless to say, my night of dancing with beautiful women never materialized, nor did any after dancing activities. Well, that's not entirely accurate... technically I did get screwed.
Merry Christmas Pietro, I'm gonna kill ya... and I'm gonna kill ya slow. (Don't throw away the drum, I need it back.)
Jack
((((Roger)))) 
