Fallout Girl's Blog

A-Tisket, A-Tasket

Radiation Level:  20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

Listening To:  Psychic City by Yacht

This horse is rolling over in its grave.

Just went to the US Post Office to buy stamps.  (For you Millennials out there, postage stamps are these little sticky things we put on snail-mail)   To my horror, I discovered the old-style, user-friendly coin-operated stamp machines were GONE.  My first thought was, gee they must have been stolen.  But after creating the visual of that happening, I gave up that thought.  Then it hit me:  the machines were gone and they ain’t coming back.

I’ve been using those machines my whole life.  I remember how fun it was when I was little to go to the Burbank post office with the gorgeous WPA art on the walls and my dad would let me push the buttons on the stamp machine and pull the American flag stamps out with my tiny fingers.  The other joy was licking and sticking them, half-loving the bitter glue taste, half-wanting to spit it out.  No more.

Barse Miller's People of Burbank.

I asked Postal Worker Wong about the situation as he sold me some Bart Simpson stamps through a sheet of bulletproof glass.   “Are the stamp machines too expensive to maintain?” I asked with probably a lot of obsequiousness in my tone.

“No, no,” said Wong.  “The company that fix them went out of business.  The machine broke and no way to repair.”

Is it me?  Or shouldn’t the United States Post Office have some guy somewhere who could fix the damn thing?  It ain’t fixing a Toyota gas pedal, after all.  I guess he got laid off when the bomb came and people avoided mail for fear of anthrax.

I suppose just like the Pony Express, the “mail service” as we know it will be gone soon, too.  I’m trying to remember the last time I received an actual, hand written letter in my mailbox.  Oh, wait.  My mother sent one a couple weeks ago with a poem she wrote about bears.  Well, maybe the death of mail isn’t such a bad thing after all.

Bears in the Suburbs

By FalloutGirl’s Mom

Days of green lawns and blue skies give way to bears.  Hungry bears.

Bears wanting trash or anything, they are not picky.  Twigs and berries are fine, but they prefer buns that are sticky.

Bears in people’s swimming pools and hot tubs.

Bears taking a break or sharpening their claws on a tree.  Bears live here too with you and me.

This isn’t a good place for a picnic or tree house.  This is bear territory.

And once in a while, if you stay real quiet, you can see how baby bears are made.

Damn poets.


Trackbacks & Pingbacks


  1. * danewen says:

    I wanna see how bears are made! Reptiles have always fascinated me.

    | Reply Posted 7 years, 12 months ago
  2. I’ll get you and my mom together. It’ll be uh, enlightening.

    | Reply Posted 7 years, 12 months ago
  3. We’re a group of volunteers and opening a brand new scheme in our community.
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    You have performed an impressive activity and our whole community shall be thankful to you.

    | Reply Posted 4 years, 2 months ago

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