The postman is afraid to ring twice

Of all the people living in this house, I receive more mail than anyone. It's likely because I have been a consumer so much longer than everyone else here, so people with things to sell are always eager to track me down and entice me with nigh unto irresistible offers. Add to that the fact that I order things online, and you'll see mail call for me almost every day.

I also mailed most of my belongings to myself when I moved here. With the amount of stuff I had, it just made more sense than hiring movers to take up a tiny corner of their van and still pay them the equivalent of 700 tricks' fees to haul it for me. The only heart stopper there for me was the one box that, for some reason, took an extra week to get here after everything else arrived. It just happened to contain lots of my old notebooks, and you've all had a peek into how scary that shit can get. I was not at all comfortable with the thought that the box had burst open somewhere and strangers were perusing what are essentially my old diaries. When the package finally arrived, somewhat tattered but intact, I said a silent prayer of thanks to my pagan gods and then stashed the notebooks under my Gumby DVDs. No one will ever think to look there.

The only other bad experience I've had with something being shipped here was a couple of months ago. I will spare you the details, since I know people who want to remain blissfully ignorant about my sex life read this, but I had ordered something of the "adult" variety, and it was being shipped UPS. The weekend after I placed my order, I had occasion to leave town for a few days. As I made my way toward the car with my suitcase in hand, I heard Derek proclaim from the porch, "Hey - there's a package in the yard."

Sure enough, UPS had simply thrown the box over the fence into the back yard. Nice fuckin' move. Again, I won't say exactly what was in the package, but suffice it to say that if the dogs had found the box, torn it open, and begun playing a vicious tug-o-war with the contents, I'd have been more than glad to be out of town while Jess explained its presence to her children. What's the next giant step after awkward? Oh, yeah - mortifying. Luckily, the box was undiscovered by dogs and I was able to scoop it up and throw it in the relative safety of my room before I left. But you can see how that could've been potentially psychologically damaging for all involved.

This week, I received some mail that I was truly not expecting. Nick usually grabs the mail while he's getting ready for work, and then I get a knock on the door just before General Hospital comes on and am presented with my daily allotment of letters, bills, advertisements, and merchandise. When mail call came 'round this time, Nick was smirking in a manner he usually reserves for breast sightings. He handed me a box and announced, "Looks like you got some monkey farts in the mail today."

He was not lying.




It's true: I was sent a box of monkey farts. Before you start assuming I received a case of queefs, let me set the record straight: The monkey farts in question, sent to me by Balulah, are actually banana-scented candles. Yes, they are actually called Monkey Farts. And they are delightful. Did I mention that it was addressed to KTard RumCake?

If there was ever a point to this post, I don't remember what it was. All I know is, my room smells like monkey farts, and there's a cat wearing a cone who needs my attention. Tawk amongst yourselves.