True Story: Santa Hates Apathetic Postal Workers, too

Location: Bryant Park Post Office, 43rd Street between 5th and 6th avenues

Time: 9:30 am

Santa wanted to mail a package to one of his most favorites, Sunny.

Sunny lives in Brooklyn, so Santa thinks, Ho, ho ho, First class for Sunny!

Santa sauntered up to the automated postage machine to avoid the line accumulating with many-parceled-people wearing grim faces. With his bulbous fingers, Santa typed in Sunny's zip code and rubbed his velvet-covered jelly-belly, pulled at his thick white beard a bit while waiting for the computer to print his postage.

But then, a message flickered: No more postage tape. Use the postal clerks to mail your package. Can I help you with anything else?

What the fuck, thought Santa, as he pulled his small package from the scale and filed into the line. No, I don't need anything else. This year's holiday stamps are ass.

Three people ahead of him and machine-head clerks winding down, Santa shifted his weight atop his heavy black boots, comfortable. Last year, Mrs. Claus bought Santa a pair of Earth shoes.

Then his turn came!

A balding man wearing glasses sat behind a scale and a computer. His dark blue cardigan hung loose over his blue-grey official shirt, and together, the shirts melted onto his body, a figure from a wax museum. Peter, his name. Various stamps--First Class, Prority--sat around him, waiting to be held. Expressionless he said hello to Santa. As if he didn't know who he was.

"Ho ho ho, Mr. Postal Clerk, I'd like to send this package First Class."

"Does this package contain anything perishable, fragile--"

"No, no it doesn't. Just First Class, and I'll be on my way. My ride's waiting outside. You know the parking situation on this street."

"Very well. Does this package contain anything perishable, fragile--"

"No." ... A robot?

"Would you like to send this Express or Priority or with insurance?"

"First Class. It's only going to Brooklyn."

"Okay. That will be $2.70."

Santa pulled out his debit card and swiped it. No cash back this time.

"You know, I tried to use that APC machine to send this," Santa looked up at Peter, busy with his empty stare, vacuous. "Ahem, the machine said it didn't have any tape to print the postage."

"Oh. Really. Well."

Santa waited for him to say, I'll let someone know, or You should tell someone on the floor that it's out, or It's too bad this Post Office isn't run by a group of monkeys on Klonopin.

"Here's your receipt. Have a nice day. Next." Peter's on a roll.

And that was that.

Santa stepped off the counter, beyond the queue, and onto 43rd street. A trail of sparkles behind him, he snapped his fingers and Rudolph & co. skipped out of the parking garage across the street.

He mounted the sleigh and called out to the miserable work-a-day people, "Merry Christmas to all, and may the Bryant Park Postal Station burn in Hell!" He sored, up, up high above Grand Central and then the Chrysler building. Everyone on the street suddenly smiled and jumped for joy, threw flaming trash cans into the Post Office windows and celebrated in the streets.

The end.

I swear, I saw this happen this morning.