Please, Mr. Postmen

When you are Mayor of a bunch of bipolars, every day is a new adventure. And everybody has a gripe. This time it was the mailmen. It seems they can’t handle delivering big heavy fashion magazines to the women of Persiphonia. So, like what are we supposed to do? Go out and buy them ourselves at full price? Steal them from the dentist’s office?

Fashion magazines are big, there is no doubt. Because they are full of ads. And forgive me, Nina Garcia, but we don’t buy Elle Magazine to read the great articles inside. We buy it for the pictures. We drool over those ads. We scrutinize every handbag, every pair of shoes. If we want to read magazines, we buy Cosmo and read about how women can make men better in bed and stuff like that. Ten secrets men don’t want you to know. 1)It’s smaller 2)It’s smaller … and so on. And Cosmo is pretty big, too.

So what am I supposed to do when my mailmen say they aren’t going to deliver magazines anymore? I mean, except for my mother, who sends letters anymore? We text, we e-mail, we Facebook. Other than bills, about the only things we expect to find in our mailboxes these days are magazines, catalogs and circulars. And what else is there?

Well, it was time to take action. And with a swish of my hand, I Donald Trumped all of them. Fired. Gone. Don’t let the doorknob hitcha. Then a quick trip to the local gyms and we had a new crop of mailmen. Mailmen who I might add fill out those grey shorts a whole lot better. And mailmen who aren’t afraid of a couple of Vogues.

Hey, that’s why I pay myself the big bucks. Read all about the mailmen incident . . .

When I arrived at my office the other day, I was assaulted by an angry contingency representing our Letter Carriers. It seems that the postmen of Persiphonia have a serious complaint.

The ladies of Persiphonia love their fashion magazines and they subscribe to them all. Vanity Fair, Harpers Bazaar, Vogue, Cosmo, Elle . . . and that doesn’t even include the high end interior design magazines we all adore and subscribe to as well. These magazines have become quite bulky. They are filled with advertising and sometimes top out at 700 pages or more. And they are heavy. The mailmen demanded a raise for having to carry huge stacks of magazines to the women of Persiphonia.

I can’t let that happen! If I give the letter carriers a raise, then the sanitation crews find out and want one too, then the city workers want a piece of the action, and before long, we are using all the money in our treasury to pay for services. That takes away all the fun stuff, like buying Eiffel Towers and Burges and bungee jumping Macao Towers and having state dinners. The next thing you know, I am living in a hovel in Spitzerville with all the other disgraced mayors driving a Yugo.

I flatly refused. They took an oath when they became postmen. “Neither wind nor snow nor dark of night nor heavy magazines and tons of junk mail will keep us from our appointed rounds.” Excuse me, but I don’t see anything about raises in there.

Then, they came up with another idea. Curbside delivery. They would drive around in little cars and deposit the mail in curbside mailboxes without having to actually carry all the stuff. Curbside delivery? Are these guys nuts? It would take the women in Persiphonia an hour to do their hair and makeup and change into some pretty lingerie before they would venture out to the curb to pick up their mail and wave to the neighbors. Nobody wants to be seen the way they really look when they get up in the morning. This is Persiphonia, not Mayberry RFD. We aren’t dashing out to the curb in our flannel nightgowns to pick up the mail. We would rather die than be seen like without lipstick.

So they went on strike. Big deal. Who needs the bunch of sissies anyway? I could find other people to replace them in a heartbeat.

I considered using our 178 tycoons. I mean, what do they do anyway but sit around and say ‘you’re fired”. I do that myself. But believe it or not, only 3 of the tycoons could actually pass the standard Postal Service Exam. The rest of them inherited the money from their Daddies and haven’t got a clue how to actually work. Honestly, it’s amazing they can even find their way to work, which is why they have chauffeurs and helicopters. Otherwise they would just wander around like Diogenes in search of an honest man. And they would be hard pressed to find one in their crowd, too.

Then I considered our 121 soccer stars. They are completely useless here since there is no such thing as soccer in Persiphonia. In Persiphonia, we play baseball. However, I have plans to use them as towel boys when the beaches open up.

So I got in my limo and headed to the gyms. There, I found enough beefy hunks to fill up the positions. They look great in the uniforms and they can lift those magazines. In fact, instead of walking their routes, they jog. They finish in half the time and I have actually cut down the cost of delivering the mail. Naturally, we pay them hourly wages. Of course, they aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, and occasionally they do make mistakes. But they will get the hang of it soon enough. And there isn’t a lady in Persiphonia who isn’t peeking out her window when the new mailmen go down the block and drooling at the sight. They are hot.

Once again, tragedy is averted in Persiphonia. And at a considerable savings to our taxpaying citizens. But more importantly, I don’t wind up in Spitzerville with the other disgraced politicians. I am passing along to you the wimpy striking postmen. I am sure you can find some cushy jobs for them where they don’t have to pick up heavy stuff like magazines. Maybe they can work as perfume demonstrators in the department stores. Surely they can handle holding a bottle of perfume and spraying passers-by. That sounds right up their alley. Dress them in pink smocks or something attractive.

For entertainment, I am sending along a copy of Please Mr. Postman. In fact, I am sending two. The original by the Marvalettes and the remake by the late Karen Carpenter. What a gorgeous voice she had. Enjoy.

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