It all seemed so simple.
1. I mail out the 72 HOM stickers.
2. I drink a black butte porter.
3. I sketch out a blueprint for solving the Eastern Ukrainian Krisis. I haven’t gotten too far on that one, other than the brilliant idea that spelling Krisis with a K will make it all seem a little less dreary. Some doughnut company should pick up on this.
4. I Love Lucy at 4 a.m. Nothing gets in the way of my Lucy time.
During our semiannual mailbox visit this week (our only mail tends to come from the world’s most persistent Jehovah’s Witness, who is convinced that sending us a handwritten letter once a week will lead to our eventual salvation, or at least the Outer Banks), I received a letter in familiar handwriting. Mine.
The envelope intended for Matz & Matz, the legendary Vaudeville comedy duo, had spent a weekend in Sacramento, only to return home with a handsome tan. Why?
You should know that Mo, who has the calligraphic (is that a word?) flair of an arteest, was annoyed by the way I addressed the envelopes, which is to say that I just wrote stuff on them. I’m a copy editor. Shoot me. (No, really. Shoot me. I don’t want to go to work today.) And I’m left-handed, which led me to develop a style the handwriting experts refer to as “Indecipherable.” But not this time.
I examined things more closely. I feared such a problem when addressing, so I included “United States” in the address, given the general perception that uppity Kalifornia is its own country. I hate states that take themselves so seriously. I can’t remember the name of the other state that does that.
But everything seemed OK. I checked the number against the address book. Actually it’s an address manuscript with an option for publication that likely will never be picked up. Yes, the address matched.
I dutifully texted the less attractive of the Flying Matzi to ask what was up.
Ah, he informed me. Rather than 5626, it’s actually 5625. I assume he gave a false number originally for safety concerns. (i could add that he ended the text with a smiley face, totally costing him his Man Card, but that secret shall remain safely with me.)
And that explained that.
Picture that you are a mail delivery postal carrier mailman person. I am likely influenced by my image of Kliff Klaven (spelled that way in an effort to ease the Ukrainian Krisis.) You’re out making your rounds. You’re standing at 5626 Hell (street name kleverly disguised to keep them from suing me over revealing actual address.) You study the address. 5626? 5626? There ARE no Flying Matzi at 5626. IF I LOOK ACROSS THE FREAKING STREET, THERE ARE FLYING MATZI ALL OVER THE PLACE AT 5625. But this envelope says 5626. What to do? I know. I will send it back to South Tejas, so that they can change the number by one digit and we can do this all over again.
The dumbest part: IT’S ADDRESSED TO THE FLYING MATZI!!!!!!!!!!!!
These are CELEBRITIES, for Pre’s sake!!! How could you deliver mail to this neighborhood and not be sucked in by the Kult of Matzi? (spelled that way because, well, you know.) Matz. MATZ! Does this person not follow ultrarunning? Isn’t that mandatory in the Greater Sacramento Area? It’s addressed to “Matz” and it’s ONE NUMBER OFF!!! If this postal person got a letter addressed to Bubbles the Chimp at Neverland and the number was off by one, would he send it back? (how IS michael jackson these days? I wonder if he faked his own death specifically so he would have more time to write me weekly letters. Dang Jehovah’s Witnesses.) Unless Matz is the Sacramento equivalent of Smith, I would assume this would be a mystery Monk could solve in exactly 52 minutes with a quirky glance and a Handi-Wipe.
I’m guessing this is a scam to extort another 18 cents from me for a second stamp (yes, I bought my forever stamps in 1967). Or maybe a byproduct of too much time spent in the Sacramento equivalent of Cheers. Or the devious work of Magic Weasels. Whatever.
I suppose I’ll try it again. I just hope they accept the address 5625 I HOPE YOU’RE HAPPY YOU KRAPPY MAILMAN YOU GO TO HELL YOU GO TO HELL AND DIE, SACRAMENTO, CA UNITED STATES.
On the bright side, the next time my pile of Jehovah’s Witness letters arrives, I know where to forward it.
Unless, of course, it appears to have been written by Bubbles …
(p.s. no, you may NOT have my panama city keychain. don’t even ask.)-