92615_RAA_LooseCannon_Text_R1_PROOF

A statement is made when people care.

No one stops what they’re doing, in the hallway, after getting their mail, and says to themselves, "Huh. I have nothing but respect and admiration for Olive Oyl for sending me this lame-ass picture of her illegitimate mon key-spawn slathered with Amelia Earhart postage. Wotta gal." I repeat: NO ONE CARES. Get your stamps and let’s get a move on. 4. Lance, gettin’ jiggy wid it. Obviously the unfortunate victim of some boy hood-head-dropping incident, this guy makes Mr. Furley from Three’s Company look like he belongs on Mr. Blackwell’s Ten-Best-Dressed List. AND he smells like tired horse. Take a shower, Lance. 5. The Squealer. Most powerful and annoying of all of them this sorority sister squeals like a red-hot railroad spike has insinuated its way into her nether regions every time one of her collagen- and silicone-modified Stepford friends walks by outside. With ear-shattering clarity, she screams the time-and-date of their last meeting for all to hear: “AAGGHH! I HAVEN’T SEEN YOU SINCE BIFF’S LAST DAWSON’S CREEK PARTY! AAGGHH! Or: OMIGOD! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT AWESOME, THREE PIECE DONNA KARAN?”

How about this, girlfriend? OMIGOD! SHUT UP!

Finally, I get my turn at the counter, and who is the rocket scientist behind the wheel? A guy who looks suspiciously like Goober from The Andy Griffith Show.

Me: "I’d like to send this Priority Mail, please."

Goober (making conversation): "Goin’ to the ol’ En-Why-Cee, huh?"

Me (not wanting to make any friends, just wanting to pay for my goddamn postage and leave): "Yep."

Goober: "OK; that’s $3.50."

Me: "Here ya go."

Goober: "Have a nice day."

So. I did my part for the cats behind me in line, by knowing how the process worked and doing what I could to streamline my part of it.

What does this have to do with comics?

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