Wednesday, January 17, 2001
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Wednesday, January 17, 2001 |
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A post office support group By BILLY MURPHY This is no joke. I am starting a support group for victims of post office stress syndrome. There are support groups for other abuse victims, so if you have had to experience the long lines, discourteous service and overall bad "vibes" in the government's equivalent to Russia's Gulag, then please join me in mutual therapy. I only have experiences in the Peachtree City post office, but I hear it is the same all over. Personally, I have nightmares like scenes from "The Marathon Man" where Laurence Olivier keeps whispering, "Is it safe?" in between drilling holes in Dustin Hoffman's teeth without the aid of anesthesia. I know people who actually get nervous about having to simply buy stamps or ship a package. Should it be this way? Doesn't working for the post office pay well? Why are they so mean they can move a marine to tears? Why does Oscar the Grouch go on field trips there to develop and expand his character? Maybe it's the wool uniform? Maybe there is lead in the stamps. Maybe there really is a Santa Claus and they have to keep this big secret per their contract for employment? I think no one goes postal anymore. It is worse: Postal employees have learned like convenience store clerks and McDonald's workers that the best revenge is not living well, but driving your customers insane. Speaking in broken English, forgetting to put ketchup in the bag and going on break right as you approach the window have to be the three leading causes of high blood pressure. That's why we need stress therapy. Personally, after a visit to the post office, I have found it soothing to get in a hot tub, light a candle and chase four Prozac with a bottle of vodka. I am not a mental health professional, but I can picture our group therapy sessions very clearly. We would bring our cards and letters and packages and exchange them with one another and say nice things like, "Thank you" and, "It is a pleasure to help you with your mail," trying not to be distracted by the greasy-haired members of the group standing against the wall, giggling out of context and sporadically yelling, "Postcard stamps only come in books of 20?!" In group sharing times, my speech would play out something like this: "Hi, My name Billy Murphy." The response would be a rousing, "Hi, Billy!" I would continue, "I am here today because I have an addiction to communicating long distance with friends and family. I tried e-mail and long distance calls, but sometimes there is no other way, except using the United Postal Service. I tried using vending machines, but I never needed the excess 3 cent stamps they gave me, I tried Federal Express and UPS, but they were just too nice and gave me my money's worth. I am Billy Murphy and I am a zip code dependant." I guess we get our money's worth out of the post office, though; we pay them 34 cents and they will carry our letter around for weeks and weeks. When e-mail came along, they started calling the old way, snail mail. What was it called before e-mail? Turtle mail? "Decrepit, elderly guy from Florida with asthma, arthritis and an artificial leg mail?" I guess my therapy has already started. To journal my feelings in my column, I feel better already. Of course, I won't get another check or magazine in my P.O. box for the next two years. So I will surely need your help. E-mail me your stories and thoughts to billy@ebilly.net, and let the therapy begin. [Visit Billy Murphy on the Internet at ebilly.net.]
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