Rant. Scream. Rant.

This is dedicated to the ones I hate.

Today that particular honour goes to Australia Post.

You may think me lame and childish, you may find my family odd, but at Christmases and Easters and Birthdays and sometimes just because my parents and sister send me things. They send me things in the post. I quite like this. I’ve lived away from them for a very long time and it’s rather nice to receive things that my family has bought me. Yes, I’m something of a kid – I like my parcels. I like to receive my parcels. Only, altogether too often, I don’t. It seems that the local parcel delivery guy has a vendetta against me – or just thinks he might like my presents because he does seem rather keen on keeping them. I understand that at busy times of year things can go astray. But I don’t hold with the theory that something can go astray between the writing of the little notification card, the placing of said card in my mailbox, and the delivery of the parcel to the post office to await collection. That, my friends, is total bullshit. The post office is just up the road. I know because I see it every day. Every day.
Can you guess what’s happened? Bit obvious isn’t it? Yeah, the fuckers have gone and lost my parcel. Lost - somewhere between my front door and the post office up the road. I walk up that road every day. It’s a trifle hard to lose anything between here and there. I’ve never lost anything between there and here or here and there. This makes the second time that Australia Post has allowed something of mine to go missing between here and there. The first parcel never turned up at all. I’ve had others that have vanished to Post Offices farther afield. I’ve had to hunt and chase before.
When I went up there today, all intent on claiming my parcel, the dumb-bitch behind the counter couldn’t find it. She cared so much I was almost persuaded to put my arms around her and slowly suffocate her. Instead of doing anything then and there she decided that the enormous queue behind me was more worth attending to. I made her take my number and extracted her nails with pliers a promise from her that she would investigate and then phone me. I gave her until I got to work before I phoned her. She’d been ‘busy’ with customers the whole time. It’s really not that had to occupy somebody so grossly retarded. My call incited action on her part or at least made her realise that I wasn’t just going to go ‘oh well, whatever, what you don’t have you don’t miss’ so she phoned me later. Oh no, dear, I haven’t found anything, it’ll have to wait until tomorrow when I see the contractor. Oh really? Right. So I wait. And tomorrow I go back and make a scene in way that only a slightly unbalanced child of a Vietnam veteran can manage. [Oh and I’d just like to thank my dad for showing me how to properly ‘lose it’ with losers.]

I’m wondering if anyone can suggest the correct person for me to complain to. I strongly suspect that the dumb counter bitch is one of the owners and I am really fucking fed up with being jerked about by these intellectually challenged fuckers.