Dear Mr. Postman,
I understand my apartment building has small, dated mailboxes.
I feel your pain. Really. I do.
I understand that I don’t empty my mail every day like I should.
I (again) feel your pain. Truly.
But this sir, is some bullshit:
I know Glenn Beck is not making the most pleasant face here, but did you really have to wad up my Time Magazine with your greasy little hands?
Why didn’t you wad up the mailbox-spam from the Tribune? Why didn’t you wad up the community magazines that no one actually reads? Heck, why didn’t you wad up my heating bill?
Why my Time magazine? Why why why?
And this isn’t the first time you’ve wadded up my precious Time Magazine! Every time I pull out my wrinkled magazines in the coffeeshop people look at me like I’m a crazy wino.
And I blame you. And so does Harley:
I feel your pain with crumpled maganiznes. Our postman one ups that by refusing to deliver mail to our place because “they can’t see the names on the mailbox” (our post office requires all residents have their names on their mailboxes b/c college town = lots of temp addresses). We just found out we are a month late on the cable bill.
Haha, but he started delivering once he saw the name right?
Yes, we made a bigger sign. I don’t know what we’ll do when it snows and falls from the moisture. One problem at a time, right?
Time to invest in a label maker! Or just laminate it at Kinkos + superglue.
The picture of Harley made me LOL. Kind of reminds me of those charity commercials where they have pictures of frowning kids going across the screen Ken Burns-style asking for more $$.
Except, you know, as a dog.
Haha, I’ll keep that in mind when I’m struggling to pay for barbri!