pour one out for the US postal worker.
the postal worker used to have an important job, maybe the most important job--acting as the gateway between your inner world and the outer world. a job since delegated to your email inbox.
they delivered the correspondence between yourself and your loved ones and your penpals; they delivered the catalogs that met your sartorial needs--macy's, sears or delia's, and these glossy pages had you covered no matter your demographic, style, income. you were just a lookbook away from the perfect picturesque christmas or the perfect gift to meet any need. if you wanted something more niche, you were always a delivery away from gratification, after sending out a request from the backpages of SPIN, TV guide or glamour. i became a minister through the US postal service; i bought my first KMFDM album through the pages of industrial nation--fuck youtube.
the mail is a flaccid shadow of its former self, and these rugged, short-short clad adventurers serve no purpose other than to deliver bank statements and montgomery ward catalogs to boomers, who don't realize that the company is no longer the proud, stalwart that used to anchor shopping malls and sell you high-quality goods at reasonable prices and has instead transformed into a private equity scam that preys on citizens with bad credit; when their house burns down becaue of the budget space heater they bought they still won't get the memo that shit sucks. they won't connect all these dots. but i do.
last week i gave my mailman a blowjob and i'm proud of it.
