After waiting in line for over half an hour, you’re really going to send me home to get proof that I live with my wife? Really? So that I can come back and spend another hour of my day on line in your non air-conditioned sadness factory? Really?

And I’m sure you’ve been treated poorly by some of the jerks you deal with, but I was nothing but civil. Don’t compare me to the Indian man who screamed at you or the hippie who sang off-key to his ugly baby. Just because they complained (loudly) to you and were angry doesn’t mean that you have to cut me off and tell me to “step aside unless you have proof you live [in your house with your wife].”

I now have some bills. I am on my way back. But I’m also bringing a dull spoon so that, in the event that there is another surprise t to cross or i to dot, I can beat you to death with it. It will take a long time, but so does everything in the post office.

Sincerely,
The sweaty bearded fat man currently scowling at you as he listens to your shitty muzak