This morning I decided to lug all the packages to our friendly local post office. They know me by name there and are normally quite helpful.

It was a bit crowed this morning. Lots of little old ladies picking up their mail, people standing in line for two cent stamps and a few college students in line with questions about mailboxes. I trotted in and out, bringing in my packages and stacking them up against the wall. A friendly lad with a ARMY shirt on continually kept the door open for me and made the whole ordeal a little easier.

I deposited all my boxes in a rather large pile against the wall and waited in line. Everytime I was about to go up to the counter a wee old lady would come in who just needed a stamp or someone with a very simple problem. I really didn't want to keep them waiting through the mailing of eight whole packages, so I let them in front of me. As I waited, I chatted amiably. People asked, of course, what the packages were, where they were going. I let the lad in the ARMY shirt know once he got out of boot camp (he was leaving in two weeks) to send me his address and I would happily mail him cookies.

I finally was able to start weighing the packages when the postmaster stopped me cold. When addressing the packages, I had mistakenly thought that they could put postage anywhere on the packages. It also happened that the most convenient spot to address the packages was the upper right hand corner. Who was the woefully ignorant one now?! That's right. The homeschooled one standing balefully in front of the counter. So I had to readdress all of the packages in the lower righthand corner. Now, please understand this is the very same post office that allowed my sweet blue-eyed and blonde-haired sister to mail a snickers bar AND a coconut. ARE THERE EVEN UPPER RIGHT HAND CORNERS ON COCONUTS?! How dare he reject my packages! But I meekly comply.

This gave the audience of patrons and the postmaster much time to inspect the artwork of my little brother who had attacked the cookie boxes with a sharpie. To put it lightly, his sense of humor is a wee tad dark and twisted. The proclamations on the sides of the boxes included:

Guns are cool

Violence IS the answer

The south may rise again but we'll be sure to wait for ya'll to get back and party

Tips for befriending Christian infantrymen. 1. Do not say 666 is your lucky number. 2. Avoid tattooing genitalia with pentagrams and swastikas (pictures included). 3. Avoid referring to yamalukes as "Jew hats".


That was just a sampling of his handiwork. As I scrawled out addresses, they LOUDLY read them off the sides of the boxes. I scrawled faster.

"That's really not funny."

"Yes, sir. I know. But you see, my little brother got ahold of it..."

"Ahem. I see."

I receive various gun control arguments from the patrons of the lobby.

I finally finish readdressing and THEN he hands me the customs forms. My hand is a blur at this point and my writing beyond illedgible. I finish everything and meekly wait for my total.

OH WAIT! One of the boxes is too big. WTF?! HELLO! THIS IS THE POST OFFICE! WHERE WE MAIL THINGS! BUNCH OF COOKIES NAZI'S.

I pay and collect my rejected oversized package and try to leave as unobtrusively as possible. No more questions regarding decorations please! Let me just send my cookies in peace! I realize my brother is a little crazy, but I like him that way! HOW ABOUT YOU JUST SHUT YOUR WORD-HOLES AND STOP CONDEMNING ME! Next time YOU send cookies you can feel FREE to lecture me then.

As I left, an elderly gentleman touched my elbow and winked. "I wouldn't have minded cookies from a pretty thing like you when I was over there. Wouldn't have cared what the box said or how crazy the little brother was. As long as he wouldn't have shot me when I came back to properly thank you and take you out to dinner."