Cantankerously Yours
No More Mister Nice Guy, Part II
By Wendell Abern
Dear Readers,
I am using this headline for the second time in three years, because – for the second time in three years – I have been accused of mellowing. This time, it was my old friend, Lou the Curmudgeon, who called me after reading my last two columns.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “First, a syrupy tribute to your friend, Jon, then a column with a bunch of commercials. You’re turning into a nice guy!”
That, from an old friend yet. Well, no one calls me a nice guy and gets away with it. So I’m devoting this month’s column to bad-mouthing and denigrating three very deserving candidates.
1 – My local post office.
I belong to a condo association. We have cluster mailboxes.
Every week, I leave letters for my postman to mail, and at least once a week he fails to pick them up.
I had had enough and called my local post office (Tamarac). Busy signal. I called an hour later. Busy signal. I called two minutes later. Busy signal. I called five hours later. Busy signal.
I finally drove to the office and asked to talk to the manager.
After eight minutes, she walked out from the back of the building.
“I’d like to offer a reward to one of your employees,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“I’m going to dial your number, and if anyone answers the phone, I will give him or her ten dollars on the spot.”
“Sir, we’re very busy. What is it you want?”
“Could you please tell me why my mailman does not pick up my letters when I leave them in my box to be mailed?”
“Just a minute.”
She disappeared in back. A linebacker the size of my refrigerator walked out to answer me.
“Yeah, whassa problem?” he asked.
“Could you please tell me why you don’t pick up letters from my box when I leave them to be mailed?”
“I open dat cluster o’ boxes from da back. You open from da front. You gotta shove your letters to da back.”
“Oh. So it’s my fault you don’t pick up my letters.”
“Just shove ‘em to da back, dat’s all. Stamps up an’ facin’ me.”
“Oh, I get it!” I shouted loudly, to make sure they could hear me in back. “This was a learning exercise! I either place my letters in my mailbox properly, or you will punish me by not mailing them!”
Refrigerator started to turn a shade of purple never before seen on this planet.
“I’ll be sure to place my letters in properly from now on,” I said. Then I turned to leave and faced at least two dozen people waiting in line (most of them not looking at the loud crazy guy).
“Okay, folks,” I shouted, “cell phones out. Get ready to dial 954-722-4476. Anyone who gets an answer instead of a busy signal gets ten dollars on the spot.”
Refrigerator had come out onto the floor. “Sir,” he said, “I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
I left. I have since left many letters in my mailbox.
Preparing for a return engagement at my post office, I have deliberately placed my envelopes face down. And as far away from “the back” as possible. Refrigerator has mailed every single one of them. I think he’s afraid of me.
2 – Texas Senator Ted Cruz.
I almost never write anything political; I like to protect my editors. Ergo, let it be known that any comments about politicians or our government are strictly my own. I have no idea where my editors and publishers are on the political spectrum, but my beliefs are so ultra-liberal I consider Communism a right-wing concept.
It should come as no surprise, therefore, that I believe Senator Cruz has one of the finest political minds of the Nineteenth Century.
When he returned home from Washington during the Christmas holidays, he said, “It’s nice to be back in the United States again.”
In a recent speech in Palm Beach, he claimed “It seems like President Obama is trying to go down the Bill of Rights and violate each one of them one at a time.”
Cruz continues to castigate the new Affordable Care Act. He adamantly opposes gun control. He has a lot of problems with new immigration reforms. And because Cruz is so out of touch with ordinary, everyday Americans, I am fervently hoping the myopic Republican Party nominates him for president in 2016.
3 – My old “friend,” Ken.
I grew up with Ken. Good-looking guy. Very popular. Great third baseman. Brilliant student. Very successful lawyer.
I have always hated him.
Ken spent his teen years one-upping me. I’d get a “B+” on a test, he’d get an “A-.” I’d hit a double and drive in a run, he’d hit a triple and drive in two. I went out with Audrey Stern once; he went steady with her for three months.
Ran into Ken last time I was in Chicago. Hadn’t seen him in more than 40 years. First thing he did was ask me what my bucket list was.
“I haven’t finalized it yet,” I said. “What’s yours?”
“Well, I’ve just planted new rose bushes; been wanting to do that for years. This fall, we’re going to China to walk down The Great Wall. And I’m finally going to finish reading, ‘The Magic Mountain.’”
“Ambitious list,” I said, long-forgotten homicidal thoughts bubbling near-surface.
“You sure you haven’t finalized on yours yet?”
I thought … okay, time to lie.
“Listen, Ken, if you can keep a secret, I did follow through on one item on my bucket list. It involves Scarlett Johannsen.”
“The actress!?”
“Sh-h!”
“But Scarlett Joha—“
“Sh-h.”
“But what – ?”
“Use your imagination, Ken.”
I left him gaping. So much for mellowing.
- * *
Cantankerously Yours,
Wendell Abern
Wendell Abern can be reached at [email protected].