By:  Herb McPherson

Mailman's Log Number 119

Now friends, I have never been a fan of this new-fangled thing called the "computer."  The little beeps and blinking of lights send shivers throughout my plump form.  I once tried to have cyber sex, but my naughty bits got stuck in the carrier of the floppy-like disk.

Unfortunately, my position as the guy that does things in some sort of postal office requires me to take a computer course.  I signed up for a six week course, hoping that I could pass it with the charm of my masculine wiles.  I put on my best "Alabama" t-shirt, spit-shined my Payless sneakers and got
ready to pour on the charm.

I strolled into the class about twenty minutes late.  Apparently they don't like it when you show up late while singing "Ramblin' Man" really loudly.

I sat down at my computer with its large viewing field and paddle of keys, and tried to turn the modem on.  To my intense horror, nothing happened.  I pounded on the button-like objects that stared coldly up at me on the paddle of keys.  Deciding to take quick action, I hurled myself under the desk.  I swiftly took hold of the wires.  My heart pounding, my loins aching, I did the only thing I could do.  I yanked them as hard as I possibly could.  It seems that computers do not appreciate such bold actions.  My unruly technological companion rewarded me with a hail of sparks.  

My mind racing, I ran to the front of the classroom where my instructor was located.   I threw him over my shoulder and bounded out of the room.  My victory bellow could be heard thoughout the building.

My instructor asked me to not come back.  I suppose the memories of that day are far too painful for him.

War does that to people.