Friday, February 27, 2009

your gateway to the good life

If you want to feel like Chernobyl mixed with Koeberg, phone MTN, drive directly into a taxi rank, or just go to the post office.

Old ducks with Zimmer frames have been doing it for years, why not add this glamorous outing to your social repertoire?

Only go when you’re in a serious hurry and while you wear excruciatingly high stilettos. In fact, grow a bunion then put on the heels.

It’s the best.

You’ll also see new developments in human retardation over the years, which for the scientists amongst us, is always deeply fascinating.

The post office is the place to hang out if you love that 1) No one appears to be present, and if they are they don’t really care that you’re there
2) They attempt to hand you your parcel at unmentionably slow speeds
3) That’s if they have a parcel to hand you. Right now your CD gift voucher from your Nan is actually making it’s way to Windhoek.
4) They do gross things.

Points 1-3 is a usual smattering of the gourmet bucreaucratic buffet that is handed to you at such institutions. And you’ll get the same awesome experience at Home Affairs or the Licensing Department, if you want variety. Either way the post office is the king of breathtaking downfalls, because this is what might happen.

Hand over my tracking number.
‘When did this peck-edge arrive?’
Peas: Crisis. Three weeks ago?
‘Wun moment.’

[hours, days pass. I survive without water, hanging limply on the counter, drooling]

‘I em teck-ing out the file.’

[More days pass. But then, just in time, Point 4 made it’s way into this electric scenario.]

A granny loses her rag and demands to see the ‘Branch Manager’, flailing through the ever-winding queue with what appears to be a riding crop. Branch Manager is MIA, and no one really knows if he’s back from his holiday at Sun Coast Casino yet.

The PO is a treat for those who get bi-polar over incompetence. Or for those folk who like to watch other people having temper tantrums in public places.

Then I see a rather round lady waddle up towards the counter, where my file-finding friend is casually thumbing through the documents, stopping to bitch and moan.

I can handle the bitching and moaning - call me a cunt I don’t care – but for God’s sake woman – do it at the same time you try to find my frigging parcel already. Multi-task, for heavens sake, you’re a woman. Bitch and look at the same time, it’s your female-given duty!

Her friend has since made her way to the counter, where she opens her mouth and lets her saliva-addled Super C drop directly onto the file.
It clings to the page.
I arch an eyebrow at her.
Looks at me as if to say, ‘So how about that? You like that?’

Then scoops it up with her tongue and carries on.

The file now has a Super C stain right over the parcel numbers. Isn’t that shweet.

So, all I’m saying – all I’m really saying here is this: if this is a turn on for you, spend more time at your local post office. It smells like ass, and if you’re lucky you’ll get a free freak show.


Ruby said...

Omw they can be so revolting! Sometimes they treat you to a show of Reach and Scratch my Deep Inner Nostril Goo with a Pen.......... *PUKE*

Peas on Toast said...

y gaaaadddd, what is it with nostril pickers? The most telling sign of not giving a fuck is the blank stares they project whilst during the act!


Z** said...

hahaha girl you real reading your blog, totlay a new fan. saw it in the Cleo,they gave you good advertisement..
keep up the good work

Peas on Toast said...

Thanks Z**! :)

Bless your little heart! And have a cracker of a weekend :)

po said...

Well you were incredibly cute and naive looking, like you had no idea of the post office joys you would one day have to face...

Peas on Toast said...

po - bless, thanks ;)

Innocent eyes that were to see too much that one scorching day TWENTY FIVE YEARS later.

Oh cripes that's depressing. I'm off to drink! ;)

kyknoord said...

Yeah, I love the Post Office. Not quite as much fun as Home Affairs, but it has a lot more branches for those occasions when you urgently need to waste time, but don't want to drive across town.

Andy G. said...

Let's go private with our postal services people!! So that you can at least if you need to see the frikkin manager.. apparently though customer services at the mobile telephone companies are also shocking. From what I hear 'retail experiences' are shocking in general because of bad the poor work ethic. I remember your article on Belgium. You would love the service! It is outstanding, people. The folk are sure: a little fearful and 'strange' but I have been here on close on two years and I choose good old fashion niceness over the rage of racial tension any day. I mean is it not that our differences which we are meant to celebrate in the South Africa of today that are driving us bats!

Anonymous said...

Your gateway to the good life? La Dolce Vita *IS* the good life. YES, my minions, YES.


Ja. So how's the weather hey? Crazy.

BecauseIcan said...

And for the love of all that is good and holy.. would it kill people not to stand ontop of me in the queue??

.. one day I may be armed with doom.. just saying.

The Python said...


Thanks for reminding me of one of reasons I left SA. The post offices in the UK are kinda private, so they work well.

However, government institutions have slipped down a slippery slope under the incompetent regime of our fuckawful Labour government. Not quite as bad as SA, but pretty dire for a supposedly first world country.

Peas on Toast said...

Kyk - yeah it's kind of great how you can get fucked around in every suburb of the country right? ;)

Andy G - I never used the postal system in Belgium, but I have no doubt it must be pretty efficient, I mean...if the dudes at NATO and the EU headquarters are using it, it should be right? ;)

Dolce - ohhhh yah. Sorry I meant the gateway to the good life AFTER Dolce :) Dolce IS the gateway of course! :)

BecauseIcan -haha, I'd love to see that - you armed with Doom and the people who insist on standing right in your neck! :)

Python - what about pensioner's day in the Ukes? I've heard every Thursday (? correct me if I'm wrong), is a nightmare because it's the day they collect their grants...but I have never used the UK postal service myself, so could be wrong!