Dec 08, 2017, 11:01AM

Bennington’s Delivery Route

The Quibbits cousin’s brief stint as a courier ends strangely.

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I got fired again. My associations with certain figures in the executive branch have limited my employment opportunities severely, especially in the last six months. I’ve found it’s best to “lay low” in the woke era. My cousin Rooster said as much last month, but he doesn’t have much to hide. I’m the one who has his rump on the roster waiting to be called out, revealed, outed, whatever. I just want to say… I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do “it,” whatever “it” is, because “it” scares me, and that’s not a Simpsons quote. I knew Abe Simpson. Very mean man.

Anyway, since my background check is completely fucked I’ve resorted to working as a mailman. Not for USPS, or UPS, or even FedEx. I’m a… hmm, okay, probably shouldn’t say the name, but it rhymes with “llamazon.” It’s only been a week but I feel like I’m making big strides in my new life, turning over a new leaf and painting that thing all different types of colors. I’m turning over a new rainbow leaf, because I support equal rights, because I’m a cool person with good opinions. No one can stop me.

Well, besides the old lady that dared to grab my hackle yesterday. I was out on my route, slinging packages and boxes and manila envelopes, just generally being awesome and the best at my nondescript job, when I happened to get stuck in a conversation with a customer. Usually I just squawk and peck at the door for a few seconds and then run away and move on to the next house, but this woman was quick, right by the door I guess. She seemed lonely: her TV was blaring some old boxing match and the ashtray was overflowing with browned Virginia Slims and plastic handles of Svedka littered the dusty floor of her modest home.

She was objectively disgusting and clearly living in squalor, but had beautiful, luminous blue eyes, and I’m a sucker for color, so I stuck around against my better judgment. She opened the door, I handed her the box, and she bent down and looked me square in the face and asked “annndddd whooooo are youuuuuuu, little friend?” Normally this kind of comment would lead to violence, but I was bewitched, entranced by her angelic energy.

“I’m just a courier, ma’am. It’s a job. Someone’s gotta do it, you know?” I’m polite now, it’s kind of my thing. She was beaming a beautiful smile, and she started stroking my feathers. This is when it got uncomfortable. “Would you like to come in for some tea? Or a drink? I know you mailmen work long hours… long, unforgiving hours, full of loneliness with no respite… you could use some hard tea and a long thin cigarette. Follow me.” Again, because this is the woke era, I held my tongue, gently refused her advances and stayed planted in the threshold. I said I had to go, more orders to fulfill.

Then she got scary… something in her flipped, and she managed to pick me up by my hackle and hold me up eye to eye. “Don’t you ever fucking talk back to me, bitch. I’ll kill you like I killed my husband, make it look like suicide. Come in and watch boxing with me, Bennington.” How did she know my name? I hocked a loogie of diseased bird phlegm directly into her mouth and she dropped me. I ran away as she clutched her face and fell over in the threshold, screaming hysterically and yelling for help. I sped off and got back in the truck. I told my partner—a very nice bear named Paddington (undocumented immigrant, by the way, just letting you know)—that she was insane and to floor it three counties over. We finished the rest of the day’s deliveries and I went home and shot up and passed out.

Anyway. I’m currently unemployed and looking to secure permanent employment. If anyone has any tips, please let my dear cousin and ideological twin Rooster Quibbits know through his Twitter account (I don’t use Twitter, or any social media, or any online banking—creeps me out. I mostly hide out in my attic and caress my many bottles of oil). I’d prefer something under the table, cash only. Not trying to cause a scene anywhere anymore, it’s just too difficult these days. Surely everyone reading this understands. I’m kind of an everyman, so, you know, take my word as gospel. You’ll probably need it someday, maybe when I deliver a package to your house (from a different courier service—not the one run by…um… rhymes with “bees-os.” I hate bees, by the way. Horrible insects. They are loud and mean).

—Follow Rooster Quibbits on Twitter: @RoosterQuibbits


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