Why I like email

by Marshall Smith

Perhaps the nicest thing about email isn't the hit/miss ratio [which isn't much better than USPS], it's the fact that you don't have to deal with a string-headed sweat-hog bitch who only got the Postal Carrier job because she's a Desert Storm Vet with a Disability and a Real Problem with people who make wide left turns at stop lights.

Sure, you may not have to deal with her directly on a daily basis, but you *know* she's there…fingering your mail…leaving her sweaty odor on your front porch…scaring the kids…waiting, waiting,waiting for you to leave some mail to be picked up by her, tucked behind the corner of the black mailbox at the side of your door…on the hottest day of the year…bright sun…no breeze…humidity higher than the ambient temperature…and she's got to deal with this stupid fucking piece of mail that you could've dropped off at your ten-thousand-dollar-a-week white collar air conditioned cush job… and it slips from her stubby fingers into the mulch by the roses… and she has to bend over with that fucking mailpouch…and that goofy fucking hat falls into the dirt…and the sweat runs into her eyes…and the too-tight belt cuts into her adipose flesh like the fish line in the Old Man and the Sea as she bends over…and the Cubs lost last night…and she spilled her all-too-expensive Old Style at the game…and her husband just rolled over and went to sleep last night…and she ate an entire half-gallon of Neopolitan ice cream before bed…and she stepped into her own dog's shit on the way to the Ford Escort this morning…and her already high blood pressure skyrockets…and she's HAD ENOUGH OF THIS SHITTY LIFE…and *BLAM!* she kicks the neighbor's Yorkshire terrier with her scuffed, black government issue shoe, *BLAM!* kicks it again, then holding it down with one hand, maces the everloving shit out of the struggling animal until it explodes in a sickening shriek of pain and bewilderment, breaks loose and frantically tears around the yard in dizzying circles.

She stands up, satisfied, shakes her arms, puts the Mace back in its nylon holster, and wipes her greasy brow with the back of her hand as she smiles. As the sweat carries the residual Mace from her forehead to her eyes, the grin turns to grimace, then to blow-hole as she starts to scream and clutch at her eyes. As she instinctively ditches the mail pouch, the strap hooks on the Mace container and blasts her square in the face. As she unswallows her lunch of baloney-on-white-bread-with-a-slice-of-cold-onion-pie-for-dessert all over her uniform, she drops to her knees to the concrete walkway in tortuous pain. As the pain in her knees also registers, her medulla takes over, twists and flips her onto her back and kicks her vomit-stained legs against the sidewalk in an involuntary but futile attempt to somehow avert the white-hot-Vise-Grip-like pain going on under her eyelids and upper lip.

The severely retarded neighbor kid, sensing this is some kind of mutant monster in his front lawn, runs up and beats her to death with the shovel he was using in the back yard, leaving flecks of fresh dog shit in her bloody hair.

That's what I like about email. None of that hassle just to send you a friendly 'Hello'.

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Why I like email

by Marshall Smith