After several weeks of operating quite efficiently without a postmaster (our office supervisor was left in charge), the brainiacs in Pittsburgh have remedied the situation. We now have a new OIC (translation: temporarily transplanted postmaster). Oh, joy!
His name is Matt, last name unknown. Why do they never tell us these things?! He seemed OK at first but the more that I get to know him, the less I like him. Why? Let's see...
There is the fact that even though he has been in our office for several days, he can't remember anyone's name! *GASP* This guy works for the freaking post office, in no less than a management position, and he he can't remember the names of less than twenty people!!! Grrrrrr! If you can't remember my name, hon, just call me Queen, OK?
Then there is the fact that he is a good thirteen years younger than me. He was still in high school when I was hired, and he's MY boss. There is something intrinsically wrong with that. It took me nine goddamned years just to get a full time position, but HE manages to become a postmaster in less than ten. Double Grrrrr!
But the real reason that I have come to dispise him is the object that he was showing off in the office today, a $600+ custom electric guitar in a velvet lined hardshell case, no less! When I saw it, I began to drool on the office floor. Guess what... He doesn't know how to fucking play it! He brought it in because he has his first lesson after work today! Rat bastard! Asshole! Whatever happened to learning to play on the $40 Sears acoustic special? That's what I did. Pompous jerk! Save the expensive custom guitars for people who know how to play them!
Excuse me. I'm having a bad case of guitar envy...
What I'd like to do is bash him over the head with it and keep it for myself. A rather unique way of "going postal," don't you think?
