There are a great many mysteries in life, and Sunday is a good day to take a step back and ponder them – if for no other reason than Sunday is a bit of a mystery in and of itself. For one thing, is Sunday the first day of the week, or what? If it is, then why don’t I have to go to work today (not that I’m complaining, mind you)? Or is it the seventh day of the week (you know, the day that the American Constitution – aka, the Christian Bible – states that God rested from all that lettin’ there be light, heaven & earth creatin’, and hidin’ fake dinosaur bones in the ground to be dug up in a few thousand years to test our faith – and if God is all powerful, why did he need a day off to rest, and does he get paid vacation, and isn’t religion kind of a collective bargaining arrangement)? I guess those of us who are going to heaven when the rapture comes will get that question answered, and the rest of us will never know (perhaps that’s the secret to what hell is: an eternity spent never knowing the true meaning of Sunday – and not being allowed to negotiate for better conditions).

Anyhow, some mysteries (like the Sunday thing, and the part where God loves us and wants us to be happy, but allows good people to suffer and is basically kind of a dick a lot of the time) are magnificent and magical, while others (like why hollering out “goddamnit!” or “jesus fucking christ!” when you hit your thumb with a hammer is considered taking the lord’s name in vain, while some megachurch preacher or teevee evangelist saying “god wants you to give me all your money” or “the lord almighty lifted his cloak of protection from the United States so mooslams could fly planes into buildings” is considered spiritual and holy) are just plain stupid.

On the stupid side, there’s FedEx. Now, if you’ve been reading this blog for a while, well, you probably quit reading it a long time ago. But if you haven’t quit just yet, you probably know that I’m an antisocial recluse (is that redundant?) who had been waiting all my life for the creation of the Internet (perhaps that was on the eight day?), and would order everything online if I could (BTW, have I mentioned lately how you ought to check out PetFlow and check out whether or not they’ll save you money, and if they can, use that link or the one over there on the right, and I get $50 and I think you get a deal on shipping or something?), just to avoid having to deal with people.

Oh, most people are OK, I guess, but it’s the handful of assholes that stick out (I guess an asshole that sticks out would be some sort of a prolapse. Maybe that’s what the teabaggers should start calling themselves – the Prolapsed Patriot Party – PPP for short), and, given the option I would shun most personal contact. Anyhow, as such, I get a lot of packages delivered, some of which, regrettably, come via FedEx. Again, longtime readers will recall that FedEx and I have had our differences, mainly due to the fact that FedEx sucks. Though, to give them credit, they seem to suck much less than they used to, and I haven’t had a problem with them in quite a while (which of course means I just cursed myself and all future FedEx deliveries for seven generations to come).

This newfound absence of suckiness seems to have coincided with a new (well, not all that new, as they’ve been doing it for a while now) policy that I have to assume was the brilliant idea of some management upper mucky-muck who has probably never broken a sweat in his or her life, let alone driven a truck (or delivered a package), and which is the source of mystery to me.

Now, when FedEx drops off a package at my door, they put a sticky note on it. The sticky note says,

Delivery Notice
We delivered your package.

And there are even little checkboxes (never filled in) as to the location of said delivery – front door, side door, garage, etc. – (which, if it wasn’t for the fact the the note is on the fucking package, might actually be useful).

Now, has this been a problem? Have beleaguered FedEx recipients been tripping over boxes on their way in the house, wondering where in hell their packages are? And now they pull the sticky off the package, and say (probably aloud) “oh, that’s what that is?”

Because, frankly, if you can’t figure out that your package was delivered w/o the sticky note, then the sticky note just doesn’t go far enough. It ought say, “we delivered your package, AND THIS IS IT, YOU IDIOT!.” Because, many’s the time I’ve pulled the sticky off the package, saw I had a delivery, but, damn, they didn’t check the box to tell me where it is, and then I have to go traipsing all over God’s creation to figure out where the damn thing is.

Which I guess is yet another of life’s little mysteries.