(no subject)
I had promised to send some New York things to my nieces.
After queuing up for ten minutes I brought my little package of two shirts to the postmistress.
Do you still owe?
Hmm?
Do you still owe money...for the envelope?
Er, yes. Yes, of course
What a horrible old woman. Jason, I told myself, today you are David, and this is Goliath.
This is going to where?
London.
Yes, sir, but where?
Please stop, you're making my eyebrow hurt.
London. England.
Do you have a customs form?
No, but I thought...
Here's a customs form. Fill it out and write Old England on it. Next!
Ten minutes later...
Here we go. All prepped and ready for a jaunt off to jolly Old England.
This is a real address?
No, actually, I made it up. I wondered if it would get to someone anyway or just circulate around the Dead Letter Office like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
You know, I could call federal agents and have you arrested for saying things like that.
Would they mail my package, or would they need to ask the president?
Sir, what's in the package?
Shirts.
No batteries?
No.
No breakables, liquids, machine parts?
No.
No letters?
No.
Not even a greeting card, sir? How will the recipient person know what to do with the shirts?
Don't give up an inch. They may have won their independence, but we still have the empire.
Not even a greeting card. You see, I'm hoping the "recipient person" will acknowledge that these are indeed shirts, and consequently wear them. If you think I should send instructions, maybe I could write "A shirt - Wear me" on the tag next to the fabric information.
Would you like parcel post or Global Priority Express?
Parcel post will be fine.
Do you need insurance?
No, but if I buy a big enough stamp, can I have you sent to Hell? I'd like delivery confirmation on that.
After queuing up for ten minutes I brought my little package of two shirts to the postmistress.
Do you still owe?
Hmm?
Do you still owe money...for the envelope?
Er, yes. Yes, of course
What a horrible old woman. Jason, I told myself, today you are David, and this is Goliath.
This is going to where?
London.
Yes, sir, but where?
Please stop, you're making my eyebrow hurt.
London. England.
Do you have a customs form?
No, but I thought...
Here's a customs form. Fill it out and write Old England on it. Next!
Ten minutes later...
Here we go. All prepped and ready for a jaunt off to jolly Old England.
This is a real address?
No, actually, I made it up. I wondered if it would get to someone anyway or just circulate around the Dead Letter Office like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
You know, I could call federal agents and have you arrested for saying things like that.
Would they mail my package, or would they need to ask the president?
Sir, what's in the package?
Shirts.
No batteries?
No.
No breakables, liquids, machine parts?
No.
No letters?
No.
Not even a greeting card, sir? How will the recipient person know what to do with the shirts?
Don't give up an inch. They may have won their independence, but we still have the empire.
Not even a greeting card. You see, I'm hoping the "recipient person" will acknowledge that these are indeed shirts, and consequently wear them. If you think I should send instructions, maybe I could write "A shirt - Wear me" on the tag next to the fabric information.
Would you like parcel post or Global Priority Express?
Parcel post will be fine.
Do you need insurance?
No, but if I buy a big enough stamp, can I have you sent to Hell? I'd like delivery confirmation on that.