For Want of a Postage Stamp

It's not for want of a nail, it's a lack of 44 cents. E-mail? What's that? Google was down yesterday? Please, don't blame Hughes. Rather, in the coming days, allow me to dig through the mailbag and entertain you. But first, could we have a more germane topic for a first edition of BILL'S BEEFS than the United States Postal Service, an outfit where, on the positive side, a black man can get a decent job, if he wants one, but in keeping with my discussion with dazed Californians earlier in the year out in front of the Newbury Park branch, the USPS does whatever it wants, much like the DNI and CIA.



Close early? Surely, if Hughes is on the way. Close on Saturday with Saturday hours on the wall? Yes indeed, if Hughes is staying at a nearby Motel 6. Was that really members of the Hendrix family standing there with me dumbfounded in the post office lot? My fellow Americans, acid reflux is a bad thing, as is giving LSD to unwilling participants in a whorehouse.



Gee willkers, Beav, if ya'll had wrecked my Ford Focus in New Hampshire, I'd be on the train and have had my nose in those remaining MKULTRA files by now. Invoices, eh? Well, the joke might be on Richard Helms' ghost, but through rain, sleet, snow, and the dark of night, nothing stops the mail, except a lack of 44 cents domestic/98 cents international. Or, maybe when the president is an oily warrior or closet socialist, the mail can be illegally diverted.



Stay tuned, as we go on to the mailbag!