We stop at stop signs. Well, ok, in New Mexico this would be mostly, some of the time, sort of. Then to get on a foolish airplane, and, but, in the name of national security, we leave our shampoo at home, line up like cattle, empty our pockets and take our shoes off in airports. All the while trying to figure out how to respond to people whose job it is to scowl at us.
Then there’s junk mail. We don’t ask for it and despite any and all efforts to block it, somehow it shows up in our mail boxes. And we accept it. Entire hillsides of forest get mowed down and thousands of gallons of diesel fuel burn for the sake of junk mail and yet we hardly look at it, if at all, between the mail box and the trash can.
But not me. Mine never makes it to my trash can. Call me a Walter, but fair is fair and I am taking my stand. The U.S. Postal Service sees fit to give me this stuff so I see fit to give it back, even though I am probably <Gasp!> breaking the law!
As any fighter pilot will tell you, situational awareness is key. Keeping a low profile, I cruise the perimeter road at the mall while scanning the landscape for Security Patrol. They’re easy to spot – they’re the only guys who would not die before driving a base model Ford Ranger, you know, the ones with the dinky little hub caps on the white painted steel rims. But still, you gotta watch out for them. Most of them failed the cut for real PD work and so they’re on a mission. I roll up to the blue post office box and make one more quick scan. If the coast is clear, I grin and leave it in gear for a quick getaway. Down goes my window and into the mailbox goes my bundle of junk mail.
Ha-ha, Post Office! It’s yours now!
Gordon Bunker
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