Never Go To The Post Office, Ever

10.10.14 4 years ago 60 Comments
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Hey, you. Yeah, you. Whatcha doing? Gotta second? Sorry to bother you, I just need to vent about something for a minute. Is that okay? Yeah? Okay cool.

So I went to the Post Office on my lunch break. Yeah. I know, I know. It was dumb of me to go to the Post Office. I know. But I bought something a couple of weeks ago on Target.com and I wasn’t home when the mailman attempted to deliver it and he left a slip saying I could pick up the package at the Post Office, so I wanted to get this thing I paid money for, you know? I’ve been putting it off all week. I missed the delivery on Monday. I figured today was as good as any day to go. So I went to the Post Office to get my package.

Now, I should mention that there are two Post Offices near me. One is on Loyola Ave. — it’s the main one in town — and the other is on South Maestri. The slip that was left for me said that I could pick up my package at the Post Office on Loyola. I thought this to be a bit odd since most any time I have to go to the Post Office for a package or whatnot the slip tells me to to go to the Post Office on South Maestri. Whatever, I did what the slip the postman left for me said to do.

Huge mistake.

So I get to the Post Office on Loyola — again, this is the main Post Office in town — and it was kinda packed, as one might expect. The line was about 15 people deep and, naturally, there were only two attendants manning the customer service window. Whatever, I got my headphones on and a phone full of tunes, podcasts and audio books. I’m good. So I wait in line for a good half hour before I finally get to the window to be helped. I hand over my slip. The somewhat elderly woman helping me goes in the back to look for my package. She returns about five minutes later.

“It’s not back there,” she says flatly as she hands me back the slip I’d given her.

“Well, where is it?” I ask in return.

“What’s your zip code?” she asks.

I tell her my zip code.

“Oh, you came to the wrong Post Office,” she shoots back.

“Well, why did the slip tell me to come to this one?” I ask.

“The postman must have given you the wrong slip.”

Well, no sh*t.

Whatever. It’s a nice day. I’m on my bike. I’ll get a few extra minutes of sun and fresh air. I’m trying to make the best of this.

So I head over to the Post Office on South Maestri. Now, the Post Office there is housed inside of a federal building, so you have to go through a TSA-esque security check before proceeding past the entrance of the building. So I go through all of that bullsh*t. I then walk over to where the entrance to the Post Office is. I pull on the door. It’s locked. I’m like, “WTF?!” So I go back over to the security people and ask what’s up.

“Oh, the Post Office closes for lunch from 1-2 every day.”

Um, WHAT? The Post Office closes for lunch?!?! What is this, 1957? Are the Milwaukee Braves playing in the World Series? Is Leave It To Beaver the hit TV show of the day? I know this is New Orleans, where the pace of life moves a little slower, but COME ON. The Post Office should not “close for lunch.”

Even better…I look at my watch…it reads 1:01.

So I left. And I’m never going back. They can keep the thing I bought from Target. It was only like 14 bucks anyway. Hell, I don’t even remember what it was. So it’s obviously of little importance to me. And screw Target for shipping my purchase via the US Postal service. USE UPS AND/OR FEDEX, DAMMIT! For that matter, screw anyone who ships you anything via the US Postal Service. These are people who obviously don’t love you. I don’t care if they’re old people in your family sending you birthday or holiday gifts. If they loved you they wouldn’t potentially subject you to a trip to the Post Office.

So learn from my mistake, people. If you’re thinking about going to the Post Office, don’t. If you have packages you need to pick up there, just leave them there to rot. It’s not worth it. Doing heroin in a Port-O-Potty at a music festival with a dude named Xander is a better idea. Having unprotected sex with a 40ish stripper named Supernova is a better idea.

Seriously, don’t go to the Post Office. Ever.

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