The end of November is the time of year when one opens their mailbox to find its bottom filled with four inches of thick sour cream or marsh-mallow or just plain hot lather. The city has a boy come around with a ladle and lay it in during work hours. The result is at least a week of ruined mail. Unreadable, soggy, disintegrating letters, flyers and important papers. All unrecoverable and highly inconvenient.

But we citizens voted for this policy. We supported it through two referendums. You can't say we didn't know what we were getting. Most people's thinking went something along the lines of, “I could really use some sour cream to finish this report but I don't want to go to the store in house slippers again, it makes my feet green.”

Or, “These flyers depicting computer age-progressed runaways make me crave the empty calories of marsh-mallow to help blot out the pain of my own early-teen hobo journeys across the great plains clinging to the undersides of locked boxcars.”

Or, “Man this mail would go great with some hot lather.”

At any rate, our mailboxes are now filled with disgusting white semi-solids, our correspondence goes unanswered and the town council has reduced public comment time limits to a slim thirty seconds.

Chris Weagel

Chris Weagel writes about the intersection of technology and parenting for Wired Magazine. No he doesn't. He can't stand that shit.

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