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    A friend of mine recently bragged that his deceased dog was so smart, that, in only two days, he was able to teach him to run down the long driveway to fetch his daily newspaper (the man taught the dog—not the other way around). However he told me that the Sunday paper was too big for the dog’s mouth, so the dog decided to bring him his neighbor’s WALL STREET JOURNAL instead.

    For those of you who believe in re-incarnation, that dog is now my mailman. Of course, on Sundays, he doesn’t deliver, but the rest of the week it’s anyone’s guess whose mail will appear in my mailbox. My friend’s excuse for the WALL STREET JOURNAL delivery was that even though he could teach his dog to fetch, he couldn’t teach him to read. Now I know my mailman is re-incarnated.

    In all fairness, the letter carrier does deliver the mail. There’s always something in my mailbox—just not always the correct something. So here’s the conundrum: It’s downright stupid to piss off a postal worker. After all, your mailman knows all about you, because he can read your mail. And, if you aggravate him enough, he can conveniently drop your letter onto the floor of his mail  truck, and wipe his feet on your letters before putting them into your neighbor’s mailbox. And, somewhere, on that truck, all those promised checks might really be in the mail.

    My neighbor down the block had a problem with his newspaper delivery. Granted, half of it was delivered on time, but according to him, “Not the half I was looking for.” He is one of those crossword puzzle kind of guys. So, he called the delivery folks to complain. They informed him that someone would bring him another paper within 24 hours. “I don’t need 24-hour old news,” he replied, “Just deliver the page with the crossword puzzle.”Well,” said the delivery person, “I don’t think we can just deliver half a paper.”  “You did it this morning,” replied my friend. “How about if I only pay half of my bill this month?” He got his paper within an hour.

    It’s good that I’m an honest person, because yesterday  a box of beautiful “Happy Birthday” roses was delivered, and left at my front door. It was neither my birthday nor am I “Sweet Evelyn.” I called the florist and suggested that they pick up the flowers before they wilt, or, that “Sweet Evelyn"  would have  a hissy fit because no one remembered her birthday.
    The driver came back, rang my bell, and asked me if I knew where “Sweet Evelyn” lived.
    I looked down the street and saw the mail truck. “You are in luck,” I said. “There’s the mailman. Why don’t you just ask him.”  

    I hope that Evelyn didn’t give the flower guy a tip better than the one I gave him.

    Esther Blumenfeld

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