Finally! I have found the grounds for a frivolous lawsuit all my very own! You’ll have to forgive all the exclamation points, but I am flush with the concept of the millions that will soon be pouring into my pockets.

For years, I’ve watched in disgust, and no small amount of envy, as individuals across america have received obscene amounts of money for pain and suffering caused by hot coffee, scalding pickles and all manner of other absurdities. Now at long last, I may be in a position to join their ranks.

Unless I receive a particular piece of mail within the next two days, your ever-so-humble jester has plans to file suit against the united states postal service for forcing him to go through nicotine with-drawl, murdering his chances for casual sex, and compelling him to wear dirty socks.

How, you may be asking, is this possible?

The answer is as follows . . .

Yon jester hath recently obtained gainful employment after a lengthy period of suffering without. Last Friday was to have been pay-day, and the jester was practically salivating at the possibilities presented by no longer needing to scrounge in various dusty locales for cigarette money, being able to put himself in attendance in some tavern with the intent to procure a sultry wench and perhaps most deliciously, the ability to go to the laundry-mat so this terrible process of washing socks and undies in the sink could finally come to an end.

Of course, on the Friday in question, spirits were flying at half-mast, given that said pay-check was not to be waiting at the place of employment, but would instead be sent to the jester’s domicile. This was fine; a lengthy period of unemployment will do wonders for the patience of even the most hyperactive jesters. Yon jester checked his mailbox on Friday, even though he had no real hope of any bounty; not even a piece of junk-mail greeted him.

The barren state of the mailbox did not immediately vex me. I don’t get a whole bunch of mail; the rent on my apartment includes all of the conventional heat/gas/electric costs that would normally arrive in bill format. If it wasn’t for junk mail and the occasional missive from the local library, I probably wouldn’t get any damn mail at all.

However, when Tuesday rolled around and not even the most trivial piece of junk mail had sullied my box, I became suspicious. In truth, I was ravenous for a sudden influx of funds so that I could partake of the endeavors listed above, washing your socks in the sink does not make them soft and comfortable goddammit!

Heady with anticipation, irritated beyond all measure by itchy socks, I headed for my local post office to see what on earth could have gone awry and to demand in no uncertain terms my fucking check!

To the credit of the postal service (and for this small favor I am considering knocking one off the multiple millions I shall seek) there was no line whatsoever. The rest of the news was not so wonderful.

In all of their infinite wisdom, the united states postal service had decided that my apartment was vacant. How they arrived at this improbable conclusion continues to tax my weary brain. I have lived in the same apartment for nearly four years now, and other than leaving it for the occasional trip to other parts of the state, I haven’t really gone anywhere.

There was that one period of time several years back, when in a fit of depression, I neglected to collect my mail for several weeks. This behavior did in fact lead the post office to decide that I had vacated the premises, but upon learning that failure to collect your mail for ten days without prior notice will result in this misfortune, I have since made it a point to collect what little mail I do get at least twice a week.

The home in which I live is divided into three rental units, and one of my neighbors did in fact move out over a month ago, but I have continued to receive mail even in her absence. Each unit has its own mailbox, and each box is clearly marked with both the letter of the apartment and the resident’s name. The box for the vacant apartment has been clearly marked with a pink sign that says ‘vacant’ on it. My box has my name on it, and despite having been referred to as such after falling into a booze-stupor; my name is not ‘vacant.’

Not only is this whole thing a mystery, it has left me in the position of having only theoretical money, which is not valid currency at any store that I am currently aware of. This whole shit-storm has left me in the position where I am running out of tobacco, unable to buy beer to woo away the resistance of random floozies, and wearing itchy socks.

In a word, I am pissed.

Lord only knows where my check is right now; it may be on its way back to my employers, in which case I will be able to lay hands on it in a few days, or it may be on its way to my old neighbor, and who knows what that crazy woman will do with the poor unsuspecting thing. If that crazy bat has her claws on it now it may be months before I see that chunk of money that should even now be securing my need to be nicotined and sexually active with clean socks (although I’d probably take my socks off before performing the deed).

In short, I have been screwed; and being an american, I figure why not sue? It’s been awhile since I’ve taken part in any all-american activities, and with theoretical millions on the line for my pain and suffering, I’d be a fool not to go for the windfall.

- finite

This entry was posted on Thursday, July 24th, 2008 at 10:22 pm and is filed under indiscriminate. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.