Dear Mrs. Vera,
Now that the US Postal Service is ceasing mail delivery on Saturday, how will the USA survive?
Mailless in Matamoras
Hello dear readers. I’m deluged as usual by Saturday’s post, and I’m going to say right off the top of the old bat that my Saturdays will be a heck of a lot easier knowing that a full 1/6th of everybody’s remaining problems have now been solved by a stroke of a pen, though I do wish it had been mine. I’ll admit it can be tiring, personally canceling all those postmarks by stamping on each letter 45 times, but I’m a stickler for doing it properly. We won’t speak any further of “Forever” stamps or my poor tired feet, if you don’t have a mind. Now, if we could just get the current congress to abolish itself as well, we wouldn’t have any problems to speak of, and could finally get back to doing what this country is well known to do — the very best in the whole world at doing, namely, creating problems! Whether it is for our own selves’ interests, or for the detriment of others, we are always leading the pack down that road and through The Bushes into the swift-moving currents of the problem-filled river of tomorrow. However, if you happen to think of the Saturday mail delivery as that one log jammed right at the edge of the Niagara Falls — the log that you and your swept-away family are hoping to grab a branch of right before plunging into a frozen misty existential hell followed quickly by a certain, painful death — then you are probably not in favor of this change, and wishing, and perhaps even beseeching Gods you have never heard of in your final moments, that they not eliminate the Saturday delivery of letters, and you wouldn’t be alone in what you were feeling.
But one of the cardinal rules of polite discourse, second only to pinky extending (that thing should curve back almost to the wrist when visiting someone who still has money, just in case you get a chance to spear some) is to always try to look on the bright side of the awful failures and idiocies and terrible dishes life sets down in front of us, usually without a big napkin for one to delicately cram that goo into, when no one’s looking. I will try to find some happy, cheerful answers to all of your hysterical maildoom prophecy wailings and inchoate ramblings, such as, “exactly who was that woman who came in the kitchen with all that licorice that one time, anyway?”, for example.
Moving on to address (get it? get it?) the letter from Mailless in Matamoras, I hate liars. Matamoras — which is the island where the Amazonians live, of whom Wonder Woman is the one you may have heard of — is a place where no male is ever allowed to set foot so, of course, they will be as maleless on Saturdays as they are on any other day. Also, it’s not even part of the U. S. of A. But I do thank them most effusively for their kind inquiry into our most certainly uncertain survival, especially since they are all rude liars with bad hair.
A nurse trainee who’s not so brainy wrote me from a pediatric call center/tech support program to ask if the elimination of male deliveries on Saturdays will result in some kind of hip and trendy, but wrong, very, very wrong and uncool baby-exposing kick, as society accumulates an ever greater population of girl children, which tells you a lot about the state of our health care education system. I find this nightmarish scenario to be a highly unlikely one, as baby exposure is nearly always seen as a crime of inopportunity, and with all those former postal employees roaming the mountains, who would ever have the chance to abandon a loved one anywhere? I advised her to switch careers to Pizza Delivery, since everyone loves pizza!
An actual mailman wrote in as well and, before the Smithsonian swooped in and had him stuffed and installed in the Great Hall, he pointed out that it was only fair that Congress demand that the postal service alone and no other Federal agency be required to fund its pension obligations 75 years into the future, as many of his colleagues, on record, have simply refused to die before they are 140 years old. He admitted to being willing to accept a funding plan that assured him coverage even for 20 years beyond his retirement, if he could just keep his job UNTIL retirement, PLEASE! (his caps). But Congress, in its unfind-it wisdom-oops, sorry, typo- unfunded (no, no… How do you spell infinite?) wisdom prefers to strip middle-class taxpayers from the workforce whenever possible to create slashed payroll revenue streams for propping up important things like incentives for the subsidized corporate jet travel upon which our current economy is based. So my advice to him, to “Smiley, Smile Smile!!!“, turned out to be the right thing, since the Black Ops Smithsonians arrived by helicopter mere moments later, with their Freeze Ray, Mad Scientists and whatnot.
Louise McNamara, who lives at 1431 Baker Street in Paramus, New Jersey and works at The Rose Bowl Florist on the corner of Cresskill Road and Lattimore Drive downtown, is a troubled, married woman who writes to me of her affair with the steamy, sexy postman, and asks how she should handle their meetings going forward, once the new policy is in place. Their trysts have always been scheduled for Saturdays, when her husband is at the driving range. I was only half paying attention while reading, and sort of told her to just, whatever, get it all out in the open with both of them, as honesty is the best policy, whatever you like. Just let the postman ring twice, when he gets there, I said for some reason. But I didn’t mean to wring the husband’s neck, for pity’s sake! So that just goes to show you no one’s perfect (even me!), and I hope my readers will recall the following expression: There’s no crime in me not being perfect! Hoping!
But all kidding and disturbing gruesomeness and police tape aside, I’m not sure the country as we know it will survive at all without Saturday delivery. As it is now, I already know a lot of old, neglected people who only get out of bed and dressed on Saturdays to see if another coupon packet, a Publisher’s Clearing House sweepstakes offering, or a letter meant for someone else has arrived. It sure would be easier to find these poor souls a “household helper buddy” to while away those decades with, if only our government could just think a little bigger and just fire everyone in possession of a valid U.S. Passport.
Mrs. Vera Newman is a San Francisco absurdist character, humorist, artist, writer, community organizer, clothes horse and co-founder, with Mister Tina, of The Verasphere. She has been answering the unasked questions she receives from the lonely, empty rooms of America’s heart-shaped circulatory pump room ever since it began beating. Nestled in the politically bent bowels of the Nation since she was a young girl babysitting the very same newborn Nation, her ability to self-reflect about anyone else’s embarrassing shortcomings, inept fumblings or lousy recipes has enabled her invisible rise as a modern day Cassandra, whatever that means. Feel free to dispose of all your worries by leaving them on her doorstep!