Get me out of this fucking city!
If anyone has spent more than a month in DC, they'll know how fucking stupid the general populace is. It's a Sisyphean task just trying to buy a pack of smokes, let alone trying to take care of more complicated errands. North-West DC is the third circle of Dante's inferno.
It's gotten so bad that I rely on my trips back to Illinois for auto maintenance and Milo's veterinary visits. The rule of thumb for DC-area service is: If it's more complicated than a hand-job, go somewhere else (far-away) to get it done.
It's been a nightmare living with the DC postal service since I moved here 7 and 1/2 years ago. I know all of my neighbors very well for one reason: every afternoon around 6:45PM, we all get together and give each other the mail that was mistakenly delivered to the wrong address. It is an everyday occurrence. I've gotten my neighbors' outgoing mail, and they've all gotten my paychecks (on more than seven occasions). I've lost so much shit, it's not even funny - Try going door-to-door throughout your neighborhood asking everyone if they accidentally received your $1,500.00 mil-grade sniper scope. Then try explaining why you need a mil-grade sniper scope (it's for long-distance target shooting... no, really).
It's gotten to the point where I'll take all of my mail (from bills to WILTS) to a post office in the suburbs just to make sure that they get sent.
It's hard to top such spectacular incompetence, but today my mail-carrier reached a brand-new level of retardation. I came home to find this sticking out of my mail slot:Seriously; What the fuck?!?
The Mail-Tard tried sticking a package containing several bulky items through a mail slot that was half the width of the smallest item contained within the envelope. The fuck-wit jammed it in so far that I had to unscrew the mail-slot and disassemble the hinge just to get the package freed.
Tomorrow, it's all-out-war. I'm laying a trap. I'm not divulging the plan (for legal reasons), but it involves a taser, a large bag of rubber bands, a container of Chef Paul Prudhomme's Cayenne Chili Rub, and three speculums.
Oh, crap... I've said too much.
Forget everything I've said.