Works, in Theory.

The postal system, in America, acts as the canary-in-the-mineshaft of the health of our Republic. That's my opinion, anyway.

There are problems.

Exhibit A: Long lines.

I received a little pink-peach slip of paper in my mailbox that informed me that I had a Registered Certified Officially Double Noted piece of mail waiting for me at the post office. My mind raced, or, rather, walked briskly around the possibilities, which were literally endless--it could be a notification that I had been elected King of China: literally endless.

But in consultation with my heart and loins my mind quickly decided that it was most probably a love letter from any of several long lost girlfriends. Hot girlfriends. Girls to whom I had not been exactly fair--it's not that annoying/indicative-of-mental-retardation for a girl to read celebrity gossip magazines, lots of girls do that. Hot girlfriends. Would I be willing to give things another try? Well, we broke up for a reason, you know? But I've grown, and it seems you've grown. It's funny, I was just thinking about you the other day--just about, well, things. [Relatively straight-forward sexual fantasy -Ed.]

I walked to the post office (less than one block), congratulating myself for not driving. "I am not like most people." A middle-aged lady jogged past me. Why couldn't she just enjoy life, like I did/do? I enjoyed life. My walking, rather than driving, was proof of that. I noticed her ass. Or, I should say, her buns, because that is what they were, "buns", not really "ass." Flat and of-one-piece, but I kept looking anyway. It suddenly seemed very strange to me that humans walk upright.

The post office door said, "Welcome Bienvenue Willkommen Bienvenidos Chuppychupchup," and so on in various languages, with their respective flags positioned around a little Earth. The flag of Vietnam--yellow star on red field--was defaced. I shook my head knowingly: That was the flag of the Communist regime, the same regime that the Vietnamese here in the USA had fled. The post office people knew enough to say "Welcome" in Vietnamese ("Chuppychupchup") but not enough to not use the Commie banner? My exgirlfriend would have been livid. Or--wait, I never dated a Vietnamese girl. Several Koreans though. But I bet Koreans have problems with Communists too. North Koreans anyway. Though I have never dated any North Koreans.

I was tempted to re-deface the already defaced little flag myself, as an act of solidarity, but I didn't have a marker. Me, "I defaced this Communist flag one time, out of solidarity. Your skin is awesome." She, "Oh really? My parents fled from Communism, do you like my hair? We can kiss if you'd like."

Once inside the building, I was shocked by the length of the line, like I am every time. The post office, as you probably know, is a little like Communism. I stood patiently in line, feet forward, Russian-style. I pretended not to know what poorly manufactured product I would be receiving at the end of the line. Batteries? Shoes? Milk? Oh God! Oh God, please let it be milk, for me and my hot girlfriend's hungry baby!

I felt very lonely. And bored. I wished that I had a Communist government to flee from, with my hot girlfriend. I would sacrifice all to protect her. Me, "Take this gun, and go, I will hold them off." She, "No I won't leave you!" Me, "Just go!"

Did Communists say things like "Oh God, Oh God"?

My thoughts returned to the contents of the mystery mail. Seen suddenly in the harsh light of Soviet realism, I recognized that there would be no love letter waiting for me here. In fact, I was willing to bet that it was probably a credit card offer. Registered? Certified? Officially Double Noted? Sure. High interest rates is some lucrative shit. Capitalism. Crazy world.

Exhibit B: Lost Mail.

I will never know whether the mail was credit card offers or long lost love letters, because the mail people lost it.

In what fantasy world can a delivery company just not deliver people's stuff and still survive? Only in the fantasy world of not having to react to market demands. That's why postal workers go crazy so much. Because they live in a fantasy world.

"I'm sorry sir, if it turns up we will notify you."

They had lost my long lost love letter.

I began to wonder how many love letters they lose per year, not just mine, but other people's too. How many happy reconciliations have been thwarted by the United States Postal Service? Untold billions!

Though on the other hand... how many disastrous reconciliations have been avoided?

I mean, we broke up for a reason.