Postage Due
By Jay Larsen
“What do you mean it was delivered postage due?”
Lipstick was put back into his chrome case and unceremoniously dumped back into the white leather purse. Despite his most energetic magenta ministrations, the line of Sherri’s lips continued to fall. All the makeups were worried. Sherri had enjoyed such gravity-defying perkiness for so long, but now all that was changing.
“How much does he want and where is the package from?”
Her hair, her lips, the corners of her eyes, all seemed intent on drooping downward. Even Padded Bra could not hold up the now sagging breasts. They had been so buoyant not too long ago with their helium-filled pertness.
As he came to rest against Pock Calculator, Lipstick let out a sigh.
“It’s tax time again,” said Calculator. “Maybe that is what is bothering her.”
“I don’t remember ordering anything from India. Ask him if we can look inside first?”
“Do you think she is going into menopause?” asked Tampon, a tinge of fear in her voice.
“Twelve-fifty! You’ve got to be kidding me. Give him the company Amex card already and get back to work.”
“What’d I miss?” Mascara asked, as he came tumbling back into the purse with Mirror.
“Tampon thinks Sherri is going into menopause,” answered the latest pack of Breath Mints.
“Since when doesn’t the U.S. Postal Service take American Express? Shit! Get me the checkbook and get back to those files I gave you three hours ago.”
“No way,” countered Mascara. “I just saw a super economy sized box of those new Maxi Pads in the bathroom this morning. They were the cute ones. I remember `cause they were flirting and wiggling their wings at me.”
“This has got to be some worthless Third World piece of junk Ken ordered. This box looks like it was mailed by Gandhi himself in the Nineteen-Forties. Twelve-fifty postage due for God’s sake.”
“Those Maxis are nothing but big sluts,” Tampon pouted. “Besides you think every object in town is hitting on you.”
“That husband of mine buys the most useless junk. Crap normal customers will not touch. And by touch I mean pay money for.”
“Yeah, you hussy painter,” Mirror taunted Mascara. “You were trying to seduce Blow-Dryer last weekend. “I heard you talking about getting her to blow a fuse.”
“Postage due. If people are going to mail something, they ought to pay for it. Not just throw it at the system and wait for someone else to cover for them. It’s irresponsible.”
“Mmmmm, Momma,” sighed Mascara. “That sexy appliance gets me hot!”
“You think I should open this? I paid the damn postage due—That makes it mine, right? Or at least half mine.”
By Jay Larsen
“What do you mean it was delivered postage due?”
Lipstick was put back into his chrome case and unceremoniously dumped back into the white leather purse. Despite his most energetic magenta ministrations, the line of Sherri’s lips continued to fall. All the makeups were worried. Sherri had enjoyed such gravity-defying perkiness for so long, but now all that was changing.
“How much does he want and where is the package from?”
Her hair, her lips, the corners of her eyes, all seemed intent on drooping downward. Even Padded Bra could not hold up the now sagging breasts. They had been so buoyant not too long ago with their helium-filled pertness.
As he came to rest against Pock Calculator, Lipstick let out a sigh.
“It’s tax time again,” said Calculator. “Maybe that is what is bothering her.”
“I don’t remember ordering anything from India. Ask him if we can look inside first?”
“Do you think she is going into menopause?” asked Tampon, a tinge of fear in her voice.
“Twelve-fifty! You’ve got to be kidding me. Give him the company Amex card already and get back to work.”
“What’d I miss?” Mascara asked, as he came tumbling back into the purse with Mirror.
“Tampon thinks Sherri is going into menopause,” answered the latest pack of Breath Mints.
“Since when doesn’t the U.S. Postal Service take American Express? Shit! Get me the checkbook and get back to those files I gave you three hours ago.”
“No way,” countered Mascara. “I just saw a super economy sized box of those new Maxi Pads in the bathroom this morning. They were the cute ones. I remember `cause they were flirting and wiggling their wings at me.”
“This has got to be some worthless Third World piece of junk Ken ordered. This box looks like it was mailed by Gandhi himself in the Nineteen-Forties. Twelve-fifty postage due for God’s sake.”
“Those Maxis are nothing but big sluts,” Tampon pouted. “Besides you think every object in town is hitting on you.”
“That husband of mine buys the most useless junk. Crap normal customers will not touch. And by touch I mean pay money for.”
“Yeah, you hussy painter,” Mirror taunted Mascara. “You were trying to seduce Blow-Dryer last weekend. “I heard you talking about getting her to blow a fuse.”
“Postage due. If people are going to mail something, they ought to pay for it. Not just throw it at the system and wait for someone else to cover for them. It’s irresponsible.”
“Mmmmm, Momma,” sighed Mascara. “That sexy appliance gets me hot!”
“You think I should open this? I paid the damn postage due—That makes it mine, right? Or at least half mine.”
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Credits: Words and Collage by Jay Larsen
USPS brought into being by the Second Continental Congress
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