People like to complain about everything--taxes, the media, my habit of typing while I pretend to listen to them talk on the phone. And now with the upcoming 1[cent] stamp hike, we're in for another bout of uneducated whining. But I will defend the U.S. Postal Service--not with my life or my money or even in conversation but in the next eight paragraphs, assuming there is room left over after I talk about myself for a while.
If someone offered you 34[cents] to carry a piece of paper to a bungalow in Alaska in three days, you'd refuse. Not the post office. Despite this poorly thought-out business plan, it is the only government agency that is not funded with tax dollars but pulls a profit--$6 billion in the past five years. How does it do it? It looks for bargains. You think Steve Miller's Fly Like an Eagle was its first choice for a theme song?
And it is freakishly accurate. I've never had a piece of mail lost. Every other company I have ever dealt with has messed up something of mine, including that home pregnancy test that for some reason adopted the most complex hieroglyphics since the ENIAC to communicate yes or no. Yet mail from across the globe manages to find my tiny little apartment every day. I even get mail addressed to that fake hyphenated last name my friends created when they thought I was whipped by my girlfriend. I kind of wish I'd stop getting that mail.
But otherwise, I look forward to my mail every bit as much as a retiree waiting for a mail-in rebate. I spend each evening in wonder that at no cost to me, someone fills my mailbox. It's like a little gift brought just to me, a gift that sometimes includes the International Male catalog.
Every postal worker I've ever met has been friendly. Sure, some occasionally get freaked out and go on a shooting spree, but who doesn't? Do you think you wouldn't buckle under the stress of driving a car with the steering wheel on the wrong side? Part of the problem is that for no apparent reason, some work six days a week. I think a letterless Saturday would be a fair trade-off for fewer murderous rampages.
But even so, most postal workers are people you can trust. I have a friend who receives regular shipments of marijuana through the mail, and rarely is she shy more than a few ounces.
Do you know how the mail system works in other countries? I'm pretty sure it isn't nearly as good as ours, if their toilets are any indication. But American mail is run by a guy called the Postmaster General, the coolest title in the world that doesn't require joining the Wu Tang Clan.
E-mail and faxes are convenient. FedEx and UPS are glamorous, with their $20 envelopes that need to be in some yuppie's valise the next day. But if you've got a wad of junk to send--Christmas cards, credit-card applications, this magazine--you're not going to find cheaper than the U.S. mail.
I'm proud that the presidency might be decided by correctly postmarked overseas ballots. Sure, I rolled back the date on the Pitney Bowes machine in my father's office for a couple of college applications, but I'm certain neither party would resort to that. And if you think 34[cents] is too much to pay for democracy, may I remind you that the 2001 stamps feature pictures of carnivorous plants and Amish quilts?