I have nothing better to do with my life than send empty packages across the Atlantic Ocean. This is probably what my step-father thinks.
I am trying to smuggle in Commie literature and marijuana in "tea bags" to Pensacola, Florida. This seems to be what the Office of Homeland Security thinks.
I am never again sending a package to America. This is what I think.
Two weeks ago, to the day, I packaged a book of short stories by Etgar Keret, The Bus Driver who Wanted to be G-d (for the title story, click here) to send to my step-dad, Hampton. While I was at it, I decided to include a few Roiboos tea bags--if you don't know what this is, try it!--for my mom.
The short story is that it arrived in a state the U.S. Postal Service calls "damaged." While we are not mail-delivery experts, the rest of us would probably just say "empty."
Yes, it was empty. Filled with nada, nothing. The envelope (again, the empty envelope) had been packaged inside another envelope and had been forwarded on to its lucky recipient.
Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.
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