Buttplugs (in more ways than one)
This week I had the pleasure of going to the Post Office. Anyone truly in the know will tell you that going to the Greenpoint Post Office SUCKS. On any given visit you, the patron, can expect one (or more) of the following:
- A person who speaks no English whatsoever, but continues yelling at the Postal clerk anyway. These folks have the mistaken belief that 80+ decibels will enable the person on the recieving end to understand the salvos of Spanish/Russian/Polish/What-the-fuck being volleyed at them. It doesn’t.
- Someone who seeks to pick up a package without tendering ID and becomes outraged when he/she becomes aware that the rules do, indeed, apply to them too.
- A person trying to mail a package that might as well have “Fragile: anthrax inside” written on it. My favorite example of this phenomenon came right before last Christmas. I had to wait behind a woman who had brought in one of the sorriest-looking packages I have ever seen in my life. She had taken a mashed-up box, covered it with butcher paper AND THEN haphazardly wrapped it with duct tape. When confronted about this by an employee at the Post Office, this woman reverted to behavior #1 featured on this list.
This trip was no better, but it simply paled in comparision to the treasure trove I found on my way home (on Leonard Street).
Dog shit and plugs. Or if you prefer…
plugs and dog shit.
Call it whatever you want, it’s still a whole bunch of “what the fuck” if you ask me. A dude (talking on a cell phone) watched me as I took these pictures. I suppose my behavior struck him as being strange. And it probably is. But I suspect my eccentricities are nothing compared to the story behind this creation.