A lot has happened during the hiatus between the last episode of the Ramen Noodle™ and now. So before we dive into this latest episode like I don’t want to dive into my still-cold and algae-infested pool, let’s review what has happened since last November, other than December, January, February, March, and half of April. But before we do that, perhaps we should review what “hiatus” is.
As the word sounds, and mostly true to the dictionary.com definition, “hiatus” is a disease that creates fissures in the bones of broadcasters and their productions. This results in awkward gaps in the broadcast schedule. Professional medical, psychological, and astrophysical expertise is sought in attempts to fill these gaps with Silly Putty, random mumblings, single-episode-appearing invented characters that only end up buried alive, and the toasted wood shavings from the nearest Motel 8’s doorposts. Obviously, such attempts are not met with acceptance by the general following, and so, most people just pretend that nothing else was released during that time, and instead call it by its proper medical title: hiatus.
the Ramen Noodle™ (um, the show, that is. Not me.) has recovered from one such hiatus as well (apparently, I’m still undergoing treatment for something). These consequential gaps in this hiatus were filled with such attempts as earning my karate black belt, getting a housebuddy, upgrading my studio equipment, and, oh yeah, a new government administration change. Truly, this hiatus has been quite a mixup rather unlike the coffee-less taste of heaven that Starbucks made for me last week when I requested a caramel Frappuccino without espresso. It was good (even though it was really just an expensive, glorified milkshake). Everything that I ever believed tasted bad about a Frappuccino (sometimes called a “frap” by those in the nose) was suddenly gone when the coffee was removed. Hence proving my point that coffee tastes terrible.
So, okay, the United S of A is “under new management,” but I have yet to see policy changes that positively affect my daily life! You know exactly what I’m talking about, and I think there may be no recourse but to call for impeachment. That’s right! I want to impeach … my local post office workers.
I think I’m fully justified in calling for such action based on three grounds—well, four, if you count the ground they trample under their black-shoed feet, but this fact is already obvious, so I need not address it. (Ha ha. Get it? “Address it”? Nevermind.)
Grievance #1: Weak Leadership
Being official government representatives to me through my mailbox, I would expect strong leaders, people who can stand up for what’s right, lift the packages that aren’t light, and close my mailbox tight.
I think my post office has employed a bunch of weaklings. Almost every day that I get my mail (which works out to be split into three divisions each week: Monday and Thursday, Friday and Wednesday, and Tuesday and Saturday—I don’t check my mail any day between those), the mailbox door is left open. Come on! It really doesn’t take that much strength to close a mailbox, does it? Yes, I know that I’m a black belt and have fine-tuned my deadly mailbox-closing skills so that I can close a thousand mailboxes with just a single running-jumping-flying-spinning-roundhouse kick (which is actually easier to do than it is to say). I remember my days before karate in which closing a mailbox really took little to no effort. But for my local fence-post-office officials, this must be too much to ask.
The problems this creates are innumerable (mostly because there aren’t enough to actually number), but annoying nonetheless.
Foremost is the problem of security. Just about any local yoodle (the counterfeit form of a noodle) can put junk in my mailbox when the door is left open. I’m talking about dangerous stuff like dead squirrels, mousetraps, Whoopi cushions, Chinese take-out menus (ooh, wait! I need to look at this.) and cinnamon rice cakes (recently registered as terrorist weapons, according to the FAAAAAAAA—how many A’s are in that? Whatever.). In order to maintain this security that the government agent has blatantly ignored, I have to close the mailbox and reopen it every time before I get my mail, just to make sure it’s closed before I get my mail. This is extremely cumbersome.
When I finally lodged a complaint through the county chipmunk-catcher’s office, I received proof that the postal agents could do better if they wanted to. This proof came in the form of a sword slash through my mailbox, which completely destroyed the door. Not only did this cause a frustration in that I would have to replace this mailbox, but it also caused me great alarm to know that my post office agents are apparently carrying around swords. I guess dogs are really getting hard to control these days. Kids are too, but that’s a different story. I mean that kids are getting harder to control, not that they are carrying swords.
So after hunting in the Marts of Wal, I found a young, attractive mailbox that I nailed to the cross in my front yard. No, this was not a messianic mailbox because, to my knowledge, mailboxes do not need a savior. Well, then again, maybe they do, because that’s kind of what I’m talking about anyway. But we digress. (The “we” being me and Judas Mailbox, here, who sold the new mailbox to me for less than thirty pieces of silver! I think I got a good deal!)
Perhaps the old mailbox just couldn’t stay closed very well, but I knew, based on my extensive in-store research and user-testing, that my new mailbox could close and remain shut.
No more than a few days after mounting the new beauty, I could see that door was not being shut all the way. Hence the proof of my theory, the local government post office agents are weaklings and can’t conjure up enough strength to close one mailbox. Hence my call for their impeachment!
Grievance #B—or 2: Broken Promises
What happened to that whole “rain, sleet, hail, and snow”-not-preventing-my-mail-from-being-delivered thing? While they may claim such heroism (despite not being strong enough to close my mailbox!), they break their promises far too easily. If I leave so much as a leaf or a single flake of snow between my mailbox and the street, the agent freaks out and runs away in tears as if they’d just been forced to see Open Season 2. In other words, it gets pretty ugly. Open Season 2 was pretty ugly, too. Hmm. Maybe this explains the ugly, gray snow we see along the roadsides in winter.
Grievance letter tres—er, three, like #3 (yeah, sorry if that startled you by coming up earlier than you expected. That last one was short.): Inability to Read
I’m often amazed, not only by how many people pronounce the T in “often,” but also by how little reading my post office handler apparently does. Quite frequently, I get my neighbor’s mail, even though my mailbox is in front of my house, and their mailbox is in front of their house (I suspect this was intentional). And both of us even have our addresses on our mailboxes (including zip codes, in case the postal agent is really lost, which would explain part of the problem). Maybe the agent is trying to make me socialize more with those people that live next to me. I really don’t need to—wait … there are people in that house next to me? Wait … there’s a house next to me? When did this happen? I must investigate this! Well, I’ll do that after this episode.
Where was I? Oh yes! Tacos! The key to making great tacos is to layer the cheese between the hot ground beef and hot rerefried beans so that the cheese melts. And then put the sour cream on before the lettuce, so that the lettuce doesn’t stick to the sour—what? That’s not what we were talking about? Well, you’re absolutely right! I was the only one talking. What’s that? Ooh. Good point! If I’m the only one talking, then who is supposedly talking to me right now? Yeah, true, I could be reading a letter you wrote to me from the future.
Hey! Speaking of letters, have I told you about my mailbox problems? My local government post office agent representative person (myLGPOARP, for short, maybe?) can’t seem to get something straight. That is, who lives here. I keep getting these child services letters from the state for someone that I think lived here during the days of the Roman Empire. Well, you know what happened to the Roman Empire, so this is now the Ramen Empire! So let it be podcasted, so let it be done! (And I just registered “theRamenEmpire.com.” I’m such a webby.)
The excessive amount of mail to the former emperors was getting rather annoying. So, instead of just throwing them away (the letters, that is. I’ve already thrown away those former emperors. Or is the correct term “banished”?), I decided to do the intelligent thing (yes, it sometimes takes me a while to chose the intelligent thing over the dumb thing, but that’s what makes me the Ramen Noodle™. And no, you may not claim that as my new slogan. It can be yours.) and started circling the dead-or-not-person’s name and writing in big, black, marker, “Not at address.”
That wasn’t working, so I added the extra step to let that entire state know, “Not at address. Return to sender.”
But still, the envelopes stream in faster than the butter melts in the Artic. So I started expressing some of my irritation, “Not at address. Return to sender. Stop delivering.”
And still, they couldn’t get it through their see-ya-(that’s “CIA” for you uninformed, which is probably the rest of us)-brainwashed skulls that the person they were trying to reach was no longer at the address. Huey, Dewey, and Louie, I’m not even sure if that person is still alive! Are Huey, Dewey, and Louie still alive? A miss them.
So it was time to turn up the heat (after all, it is still cold outside) and start getting compensation for the wasted time. The last envelope that I returned to my post office handler read, “Not at address. Return to sender. Stop delivering. Further deliveries will incur a $1-per-item charge.”
One of two things will happen. Either they will finally get the picture—although I didn’t send them a picture. Maybe I should’ve done that because a picture is worth a thousand words. Hmm—or I will soon be filthy rich. Actually, maybe I’m grateful for those incompetent post office people now!
But then again, there are those other letters I get. “Current resident”? Yeah, he doesn’t live here anymore, either.
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