GIMME BACK MY GRUMPY MAILMAN OR HAND ME MY 12-GAUGE! I’m so fired up I just chewed through a tin can and spit out a harmonica solo!
The United States Postal Service – you know, the outfit that’s been losing money since the Pony Express filed for bankruptcy. Now they want to deliver your birthday card from Aunt Gladys with a buzzing, camera-eyed DRONE that looks like a mosquito on steroids! They say it’s “the future.” I say it’s the fastest way to get me arrested for turning government property into Sunday supper with a side of BBQ sauce!
Picture this, patriots: You’re out mowing your lawn in your American-flag underwear, sipping a lukewarm beer, when suddenly the sky fills with a mechanical locust the size of a Thanksgiving turkey. It hovers over your porch, drops a Victoria’s Secret catalog on your welcome mat, takes a 4K photo of your bald spot for “delivery confirmation,” then zips off to ruin somebody else’s day. That ain’t progress – that’s a flying Peeping Tom with a union contract!
THE GREAT OLD DAYS
Back in my day, mail came courtesy of a real live human being. Usually, it was a guy named Earl who smelled like cigarettes and regret, drove a truck held together with prayers and duct tape, and knew which dogs bite and which widows bake banana bread. Earl didn’t need GPS because he’d been walking the same route since Truman was president. He waved. Earl said “Hot enough for ya?” Earl was America, dammit!
But no, the pencil-neck geniuses in Washington decided Earl costs too much. So they’re replacing him with a plastic helicopter that can’t even handle rain without short-circuiting and crying for a software update. One good thunderstorm and your tax refund is doing the dead-man’s float in Mrs. Kowalski’s koi pond!
And don’t think these sky-rats are harmless. The Postmaster General claims they’re “perfectly safe.” Yeah? Tell that to my cousin Leroy who already shot one down over his backyard in Possum Holler. Thought it was a Commie surveillance craft. Turns out it was just delivering his erectile-dysfunction pills. Now the feds want to charge HIM with destroying federal property. I say give Leroy a medal and a case of buckshot!
What’s next? Drone wedding invitations that crash into the cake? Drone jury-duty notices that tase you if you’re late to court? Drone love letters that read themselves out loud in Siri’s smug robot voice while your wife listens? I’d rather go back to smoke signals and carrier pigeons. At least the pigeons have the decency to crap on your enemy’s car!
ED SOLVES THE PROBLEM
Here’s my plan, and Congress better listen up or I’ll march on Washington with a slingshot and a bad attitude:
- Keep the drones for delivering to volcanoes and liberal college campuses – everywhere else gets Earl or Earl’s cousin.
- Make every drone wear a little postal hat so I know which ones are fair game.
- If one of those whirlybirds buzzes my property again, I’m claiming it as a “mechanical turkey.” And the Second Amendment says I can roast the dang thing!
Until the Post Office comes to its senses, I’ve got my lawn chair on the porch, a cooler of domestic beer, and Ol’ Betsy loaded with rock salt and righteous indignation.
Fly over my house, you battery-powered buzzard, and you’ll be the main course at the Anger family reunion – extra crispy, with a side of freedom fries!
Yours in fury,
Ed Anger
P.S. If you’re reading this and you work for the Post Office – tell your boss Ed said he can take his drone and deliver it straight to where the sun don’t shine!
