Siii … iii… iiigh
Yes, I am waiting in for a (100 grammes or less) parcel that hasn’t been delivered on time after a week-and-a-half, nor a Sorry You Were Out card left on my doorstep for the wind to blow away.
Apparently … and I quote … “the package is undergoing clearance from the clearing agency.”
Which ‘clearing agency’ precisely? What is its name? Which UK governmental department’s remit does it fall under?
In the last few months, I have received some six international deliveries from Amazon and also via DHL. Two of them even came from Hong Kong. All of the packages arrived not merely on time, but their delivery schedules were updated anywhere between three and seven days earlier than initially estimated. All were released by UK Customs And Excise within twenty-four hours (if not sooner) of the updated schedule.
But UPS make hand-wavy allusion to an unnamed ‘clearing agency’ that needs to clarify the status of a parcel (already in the UK for five days) that has been sent from Germany, not the other side of the planet.
Colour me unreasonably cynical, if you like, but I’d be prepared to put good money on a bet that they’re f**king lying!
As long as live, I will never use UPS to send anything anywhere myself.
I will never do business with anyone who makes use of their delivery disservice (even now the UPS site is still showing a delivery schedule of yesterday morning!) — should you do so, even if their products and/or service are a thousand times worse than your own, I will terminate our contract(s) and go to one of your competitors.
If you are a friend and send me a present delivered by UPS … even if it arrives on time, I will consider our friendship terminated with no hope (let alone actual chance) of it ever being rekindled (you will be dead to me).
If you are a family member and send me a gift delivered by UPS … even if it arrives on time, you may consider yourself disowned — I have no brother/sister/mother/father/son/daughter/wife/girlfriend/cousin … whatever you were to me, you are no longer and never will be again.
Dear [Insert name of carbuncle on the backside of Humanity here],
I hope your business fails.
I hope you lose your home.
I hope your children are cold, hungry, miserable and without gifts this Christmas.
I hope your wife/husband/partner leaves you, taking the children with her/him and gets a restraining order preventing you from ever seeing them again.
I hope your children forget who you are or what you look like … never to remember you for as long as they live.
I hope you end up a ranting, homeless, alcoholic tramp with pneumonia, pleurisy and leukaemia … ridiculed and avoided even by other insane casualties on the streets … beaten and raped in dark alleyways … pissing your last in the bottle that kills you … uncared for, forgotten and unnoticed … your corpse ravaged by feral cats, dogs, crows and rats … leaving not even a stain on the street to remind the World that you were ever here.
I would wish you the Season’s Greetings, but, frankly, I hope it’s your last … and besides, I can’t find a Christmas card with the motto Die, you bastard/bitch!
[Insert your name here]
No, I am not a happy bunny … oh, no.
Right, that’s your lot … I have to go and fantasise about giving people barbed-wire enemas and then ̶w̶a̶t̶e̶r̶b̶o̶a̶r̶d̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶m̶ ̶w̶i̶t̶h repeatedly drowning them in a bucket of liquid dog-crap … before chopping their arms off at the shoulders, their legs off at the hip, poking out their eyes, ramming knitting needles in their ears, sewing heir lips shut, strapping them into a pushchair/buggy and leaving them in the middle lane of the motorway/freeway at four in the morning ¹.
So, l8rz, peeps.
¹ They’ll be unable to see or hear the vehicle that will end their wretched existence, but all too aware of how close the last eighteen-wheeler came and that it can only be a mater of time … buffeted hither and thither by the wind of the vehicles that mercifully pass them by, skittering this way and that across the lanes, finally coming to rest, tipped over on their side at some indeterminate place in the path of the oncoming traffic, the ground-tremblnng rumble of the next approaching juggernaut portending, yet again, that this time might be the last time they experience either
Condemned to hope, in their last moments, against Hope itself that, bounced to the side of the road, they might yet, saved by a whim of Fortune, find safe harbour (for whatever pitiful worth that abject future might hold for them in their condition)… their last experience in Life the despair of the disempowered whose destinies depend upon not even caprice but the sheer injustice of blind luck, the last sound they make a pitiful mew reflecting the strickening loss of agency to even apprehend, let alone give voice to, their ignoble fate … utterly helpless … unable even to scream in terror.
If it ever does transpire that we’re living in a simulation then I would not be at all surprised to learn that I were the product of John Tinney’s diseased imagination 😉
² He’s adopted you know … nobody loves him.