Post Haste

Far be it from me to deny the charms of a hand-written letter, if only to remind oneself of the fact that highly-educated people under the age of 25 or so nowadays have worse handwriting than was once expected of 5th graders. My own script is renowned for its boldly masculine flair, with elegant, sweeping curves that ravish the page, punctuated by the occasional angular flourish that boldly defies schoolmarmish tradition. For this I can thank my archaic grade school, which required daily penmanship classes while eschewing entirely the use of the computer as nothing more than a passing fad. The fact that these kids today can barely print their own name legibly, let alone write in passable cursive, causes one to doubt whether they are in fact capable of any form of cultural discernment whatsoever.

That being said, fuck the Post Office, or as I call it, the garbage delivery service. This USA Today article warns that home delivery could, by 2026, be cut back to three days a week, and all I can think is, “what the Hell are you waiting for?” Even today, I receive virtually nothing in the mail other than Boston Globe coupon circulars, offers for high-interest credit cards, and Fingerhut catalogs. Every day, a pound or so of mail goes straight from the mailbox to the trash can. Forget about a change-of-address, I want to know where to file a deletion-of-address request.

On those rare occasions when nothing less than engraved stationary will do, surely the likes of Federal Express could be relied upon to provide adequate service. Indeed, they would do so now, if not for the fact that the Private Express Statutes specifically forbid it.