Ixnay on the Itchy Trigger Foot

Y'all, 47% of Florida's elderly population is driving with an itchy trigger foot. This appears to be an age-related entitlement, and there's nothing we can do about it because they would get really, really cranky if we "youngsters" started telling them what to do. Then they'd start withholding the Christmas Florentines, the Eye-talian cream birthday cakes, and the annual Bludgeoned Chickenfest—while firing up the guilt grill. No sir, that will not do.

But back to the itchy trigger foot. See, here's why it's a problem. When the old farts take their daily joy ride to the nearest post office, a disturbing number of them are exiting the parking lot via the building's front windows. Why, only a month ago, a woman said she was startled by something falling from the sky, so she accelerated into the post office lobby—prompting the police to schedule a pickup. Perhaps the sky was falling, or perhaps it was air mail. I'm not here to judge, but I doubt this is what the USPS had in mind when they started their "Stay Connected" campaign. This year in Central Florida alone, there have been eight sudden detours.

Fortunately, the USPS isn't punishing folks by calling out fake take-a-number tickets. "Heh, heh. What, nobody has #999? Heh. What about 633? No? Heh. 4,286? We've got all day, folks." No, they're actually asking Floridians to stop crashing into their post offices. Like this: "Please stop crashing into our post offices." And the USPS is being really nice about it by saying "please" and including helpful tips. Pretty sure there's one that goes, "Don't get behind the wheel while the key is in the ignition. Please."

Now I'm sure, when I get very, very old, a joy ride to the post office will be on my agenda too. Along with a leisurely stop-and-shop at the Cracker Barrel and the hand-scribing of an unfiltered letter about our nation's imminent Apocalypse due to POTUS's ideology being a tad different from mine. I mean, what is this? America? I can even imagine myself after an unfortunate rendezvous with my post office lobby, where my official statement will be:  "It's the darnedest thing, Whippersnapper. I stomp on the brake, and I'm always surprised at how much faster I go. Weeee! Hey, anybody seen my teeth?"

But to ixnay the itchy trigger foot, I suggest the USPS and the police combine forces with a new service called, "Priority Tracking and Confirming Your Old Farts." This just shows you love them. You could go online and, instead of looking up a zip code, you could GPS the location of your old farts, then request a certified return receipt to ensure your package arrives undamaged at his or her destination, steering clear of sidewalks, glass, and screaming postal workers.

Naturally, this would necessitate your oldest farts getting tattooed with a Forever Stamp on their foreheads. To stay connected. They'll go for that, right?
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