By:  Herb McPherson

Mailman's Log Number 1403

Today started like any other day.  I awoke from under my Pound Puppies tm sheets and raced into the bathroom.  I showered, shaved, and plucked my eyebrows as usual.  It was while applying my nipple clips that I decided to make today a special day.

You see, I was chosen for a mission.  What was that mission, you ask?  Well, it just so happens that I have an answer.  I was sent to show those goddamn Thompsons what it meant to have manners.

Peppy was his name.  It was a name that forces the churning bile that normally resides in my stomach to rise to my throat.  The only other time I ever had that reaction to anything is when Reagan fired all those air-traffic control guys in '81. So now, Peppy...the time has come for drastic measures, you little twit.

I never knew a Jack Russell Terrier could produce so much feces.  Peppy was the disgusting little stump of a creature that was owned by the Thompson family.  His face reminds me of the film Throw Mama from the Train (but with a better plot). He was free to dispose of his unending supply of doggie poo all over the yard, my friends.   All over the fucking yard.  And you know what?  I think he enjoys it.

Further, the terrier delights in using its annoying little voice as often as possible.   I think he knows what it does to me.  Comrades, this is the Fran Drescher of dogs.

Picture this: While delivering mail to the accursed Thompson family, I am forced to run screaming through the obstacle course that is known as the Thompsons' front lawn, with my arm (I lost my other arm in a poop-related accident in '77) flailing wildly over my head.

No more, my friends.  I decided to take action.  Peppy was been a stone in my proverbial shoe for far too long.  Taking a large, trusty shovel along with me, I made my way over to the Thompson home.  I scooped up a large pile of Peppy poo and did the only logical thing.  With years of bitter frustration and angst welling up inside me, I triumphantly flung it at the house.  After six or seven piles of dung adorned the Thompsons' abode, I felt my work was complete.

So, my foolish Peppy, you may have won the battle...

But you see, I have won the war.

(Note to Self: If anyone asks, it was like that when you got there.)