Bare-Knuckled Bekki vs. the United States Postal System

I wonder how many times you can actually thump somebody in the temple until the pressure is so great that their head explodes. Bekki called the Post Office today. Some Irish prick who delivers our mail must have a real hard-on for us. Every time he comes by he's got some prank to pull. First it was scattering our mail all over our front lawn. It took me a while to get it, but I see the humor in it now. Then today he places the mail in the slot and rips off the face of the box and leaves THAT lying in the yard. I would have called the Post Office myself, but Bekki's PMS-ing so I figure I'd let her direct all of her pent up rage towards someone other than myself.

The Post Master says he's gonna send somebody out to asses the damage. I keep thinking of the Arlo Guthrie song Alice's Restaurant Massacre where a federal indictment is made out of a simple littering charge. I wonder if we'll have to give DNA samples. While we're at it we can kill two birds with one stone and find out if there's a gene that relates to intolerance of stupidity and petty vandalism. If it exists, I'm sure Bekki's a carrier.

Our minimum credit card payment is $50. We paid $400 this month. But apparently the fiber-optic scanner that reads checks sent in to the Credit Union mistook our 4 for a 9. I'm not that great at math but I believe that leaves a $500 overcharge on our account. Since the card is in Bekki's name, she again was forced to take off the gloves in a verbal beat down between us and the Credit Union. They pussed out, though, and told us to call our bank. Who, in turn, told us to call the credit card company directly. So now we have three agencies sending us complaint forms which will take 7 to 10 business days. By that time we will have entered another pay period, missed our mortgage payment, been foreclosed upon, forced to live on the streets and eat out of the dumpsters behind Ruby Tuesdays. We will have run out of money to pay for antidepressants and will probably realize what dismal existences we live and take our own lives in what will be classified as a murder-suicide (Bekki hates knives). So now the question is whether or not our bank will reimburse us for the funeral costs as our life insurance plans exclude suicide. Which reminds me, I've got to call the bank.

On second thought, I'll just get Bekki to call.