HAIRSHIRT
Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery
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HAIRSHIRT Helping You Get the Most Out of Your Misery |
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Monday, May 14, 2007Dadgum Guv'ment: A Stamp Project Post-Mortem And so ends The Stamp Project. In failure. In abject failure. The price of mailing a letter first class has, as of today, gone up two more pointless cents and I was unable to burn through all of the thirty-nine cent stamps I'd acquired since the last price increase. I have, in fact, twenty-nine of the old buggers left. I'm now faced with the wholly unpleasant prospect of having to slap a butt-ugly two-cent stamp on the next twenty-nine envelopes I send out. I tried. I did. I wrote letters. I sent birthday and Mother's Day cards. But I never got any actual correspondence going. And it's just kind of pathetic writing to someone you don't see/speak to on a regular basis...and then writing to them again without having received any response. *sniff**sniff* So I must now turn to the question of why people didn't write me back. It's possible that every single letter I sent out was addressed wrong and I'm going to get a whole bunch of mail stamped "Return to Sender". Which will force me to break out into a really weak Elvis impression that nobody's asking for. The recipients of my missives may have all sprained their wrists in bow hunting accidents. Sometimes, when you've got a ten-point buck in your sites and you're about to send an arrow through his carotid, things get crazy and people get hurt. Dear God, what if I've been placed on some sort of Orwellian watch list by the government and all the letters were intercepted by Alberto Gonzales's goons, to be taken to a dark room and scanned for coded instructions to my terrorist minions? Perhaps, in a drug-induced haze, I stuffed the letters not into a mailbox, but into the mouth of some guy begging for change. That'd be more likely if I'd been doing drugs. Still, Tylenol Sinus can cause some wicked hallucinations. Well, whatever the actual reasons, the Stamp Project is over now and I felt like I had to be man enough to admit defeat in the only public forum left to me now that I've been banned from Open Mike Nite at Charlie's Java Shack. (This is due to a haiku gone horribly, horribly wrong, but that's a story for another day.) I close now with these words to the government who so heartlessly raised the price of postage in the full knowledge that so many of us would be stuck with useless stamps: You suck, guys. Seriously. You suck week-old bong water. With a straw.
Comments:
It takes a big man to admit defeat.
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Perhaps you should fashion some sort of "shame hat" out of the remaining stamps for you to wear. Or wear them as socks.
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