I hate getting all that fucking junk mail that gets crammed into our mail box every week.  Back in November, I wrote my two cents worth about the subject.  Here it is:

            It never fails!!!  What happens on Tuesdays?  You guessed it – Junk Mail Tuesday!!  Every fucking week there is a big pile of shit stuffed into the apartment complex’s mail boxes.  The large trash can next to the mail room door overflows with more than three hundred discarded bundles of the crap.  When I checked the box this evening and found our weekly murdered tree, I had just had enough.  I decided to send a clear message of discontent to the postal service on behalf of myself and all of my fellow tenants.  I had just the right meal under my belt for the job – beef cubed steak, rice and gravy, sweet whole kernel corn, and some Mich Ultra.  The walk to the mailboxes had digested my dinner enough that I had a little more room to snarf down another helping of good ole rice and gravy.  I then gulped down an eight ounce cup of that oh so slippery Goldschlager in preparation form my mission.  Six months of this weekly bullshit spurred me onward as I knew the Florida heat and humidity would definitely drive my disgruntled opinion home to our ever dependable postal service worker upon his next day’s delivery of desecrated forestry.  Damn that Goldschlager sure can knock one’s dick in the dirt.  I put the mailbox key in my pocket and staggered to ground zero near the rental office.  With the buzz from hell, I giggled quietly to myself as I stuffed more than three hundred piles of victimized and wasted trees back through the hungry mouth of my open mailbox.  I couldn’t help but wonder how far up that little mail room all that shit would pile as I listened to the rustle and crumpling of the falling paper.  I could feel my stomach churning in anticipation of making a deposit of my honest opinion on this matter of junk mail.  As if talking through the mail box’s opening, I leaned in and wrenched forth a torrential gold speckled Technicolor yawn of dinner a la Goldschlager.  I knew I hit pay dirt as I heard the evening’s groceries reverberate off the mail room door as they splattered back and rain down over the litter on the floor of the room’s four by four interior.  It trickled down the walls like rain dripping from the trees after a May shower.  After wiping residual bilious evidence from the mail box’s opening, I locked it tight for a night of steamy festering.  As I staggered back to the apartment, I couldn’t help but wonder if those pretty gold specks from that oh so good Goldschlager would still be bright and shiny when the mail man opened that putrid mail room door in another eighteen hour.   

I hope I didn’t gross you out too bad.  LOL!!!!

Until nect time…