This is no joke. I am starting

a support group for victims of post office stress syndrome. There are

support groups for other abuse victims, so if you have had to experience

the long lines, discourteous service and overall bad "vibes"

in the government's equivalent to Russia's Gulag, then please join me

in mutual therapy.

I only have experiences in

the Peachtree City post office, but I hear it is the same all over. Personally,

I have nightmares like scenes from "The Marathon Man" where

Laurence Olivier keeps whispering, "Is it safe?" in between

drilling holes in Dustin Hoffman's teeth without the aid of anesthesia.

I know people who actually get nervous about having to simply buy stamps

or ship a package. Should it be this way?

Doesn't working for the post

office pay well? Why are they so mean they can move a marine to tears?

Why does Oscar the Grouch go on field trips there to develop and expand

his character? Maybe it's the wool uniform? Maybe there is lead in the

stamps. Maybe there really is a Santa Claus and they have to keep this

big secret per their contract for employment?

I think no one goes postal

anymore. It is worse: Postal employees have learned like convenience store

clerks and McDonald's workers that the best revenge is not living well,

but driving your customers insane. Speaking in broken English, forgetting

to put ketchup in the bag and going on break right as you approach the

window have to be the three leading causes of high blood pressure. That's

why we need stress therapy. Personally, after a visit to the post office,

I have found it soothing to get in a hot tub, light a candle and chase

four Prozac with a bottle of vodka.

I am not a mental health professional,

but I can picture our group therapy sessions very clearly. We would bring

our cards and letters and packages and exchange them with one another

and say nice things like, "Thank you" and, "It is a pleasure

to help you with your mail," trying not to be distracted by the greasy-haired

members of the group standing against the wall, giggling out of context

and sporadically yelling, "Postcard stamps only come in books of

20?!"

In group sharing times, my

speech would play out something like this: "Hi, My name Billy Murphy."

The response would be a rousing, "Hi, Billy!" I would continue,

"I am here today because I have an addiction to communicating long

distance with friends and family. I tried e-mail and long distance calls,

but sometimes there is no other way, except using the United Postal Service.

I tried using vending machines, but I never needed the excess 3 cent stamps

they gave me, I tried Federal Express and UPS, but they were just too

nice and gave me my money's worth. I am Billy Murphy and I am a zip code

dependant."

I guess we get our money's

worth out of the post office, though; we pay them 34 cents and they will

carry our letter around for weeks and weeks. When e-mail came along, they

started calling the old way, snail mail. What was it called before e-mail?

Turtle mail? "Decrepit, elderly guy from Florida with asthma, arthritis

and an artificial leg mail?"

I guess my therapy has already

started. To journal my feelings in my column, I feel better already. Of

course, I won't get another check or magazine in my P.O. box for the next

two years. So I will surely need your help. E-mail me your stories and

thoughts to [email protected], and let the therapy begin.

[Visit Billy Murphy on the

Internet at ebilly.net.]