Dear Mr. Postman,

I understand my apartment building has small, dated mailboxes.
I feel your pain. Really. I do.

I understand that I don’t empty my mail every day like I should.
I (again) feel your pain. Truly.

But this sir, is some bullshit:

I know Glenn Beck is not making the most pleasant face here, but did you really have to wad up my Time Magazine with your greasy little hands?

Why didn’t you wad up the mailbox-spam from the Tribune? Why didn’t you wad up the community magazines that no one actually reads? Heck, why didn’t you wad up my heating bill?

Why my Time magazine? Why why why?

And this isn’t the first time you’ve wadded up my precious Time Magazine! Every time I pull out my wrinkled magazines in the coffeeshop people look at me like I’m a crazy wino.

And I blame you. And so does Harley: