Another Monday reluctantly yawns open and I find myself sitting here at the desk, eyes cemented, listening for that long wet sigh from the ‘Cuisineart 4-Cup Coffee Maker’ that says, “Hey. I’m done. Come and get a cup, buddy.” It’s like the distant sound of the shit-carter man enjoying a thunderous belch, having just lifted the final barrel of shit onto the back of his shit-cart… What?

You know that scene from Midnight Cowboy where Ratso is complaining that he has to get out of New York? Wait… scene? What scene? That’s the whole movie! Anyway, you know Ratso? That’s me right now. Where the fuck is the postman and my checks? He’s holding out on me! He’s Waiting for me to die so he can sign them over to himself and go buy some rub-on charisma. My mailman is a dumb fuck. Literally. He’s mute, or at least I think he is. He’s never returned a “hello” since he started barely delivering my mail five years ago. AND he knocked off my ‘Lyndsay Lohan doing Marylin’ issue of New York Magazine! The one and only time New York doesn’t arrive in my mailbox just happens to be the one and only time it has a pair of pendulous, freckle-speckled cans on the cover.
I know you took it, AND I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME!
I hate you mailman, and I’m on to you. Bring me my God damn checks! I’m dyin’ here!
I could care less about Lyndsay’s knockers, but it’s the principle. You can’t just take my mail. I’m going down to the mailbox now, and if there are no checks I will be very,very angry…