I am not making this up.

I have arranged my life so that I never have to stand in lines at the post office, with one exception: I need my tax remittances sent certified mail and, therefore, stamped by the postal clerk. So yesterday I’m in a serpentine, crawling line with two clerks slowly writing and stamping, and taping things, and occasionally walking away from the window, and chatting up customers, oblivious to the line.

I’m finally the next in line when a UPS guy walks in, because they trade some services with the postal service. He spots me (he saw my car outside) and yells, “Hey, Alan, I have something for you in the truck. Do you want it now?”

“Sure,” I yell back, “the car is open, put it in my trunk.”

“Will do,” he says, “have a nice day.” I still haven’t been called to the window, but the woman behind me, flabbergasted by this exchange, says out loud, “Not THAT’S service!!”

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