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The U.S. Postal Service isn’t perfect by any means. It reminds me of my brother Jerry in Colorado: he’s not the most reliable — not if you need something on time — but “neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night” can stop him when he gives his word. The presents he mailed me for Christmas still haven’t made it, but my ounce of cannabutter got here just in time to make special brownies! He, just like the mail, always shows up for me somehow. 

The mail has been my lifeline during this quarantine living out here in the sticks. I’m probably the last person still getting Netflix DVD’s by mail, but I love my blu-rays; I voted by mail for the first time this year and avoided the unmasked masses at the polls; and of course, I order all my magazines through Publisher’s Clearing House. Jerry says I’m a sucker, but it’s no different than buying lotto tickets. At least I get an issue of Vanity Fair every month as a consolation prize. What does he get? His heart is in the right place, but can never seem to catch a break…

Like the USPS. Everyone thinks they’re dumb and can’t manage their money, but the majority of their debt is just a pension fund they can’t get into. It’s like that time Jerry picked out this fancy casket for mom and put it on his credit card knowing full well he can’t afford a pot to piss in. She’s not even dead, he just wanted to surprise her. She was surprised! 

Did I mention Jerry lives in Colorado where cannabis is 100% legal? Maybe I’ll move out there with him when this is all over.  For now, he discreetly sends me a box of goodies from the dispensary every month. In June, he wrapped an eighth of Indica in Star Wars wrapping paper. In August, I got a bottle of gummy vitamins switched with THC gummies. In September, he mailed some vape pens hidden in a box of Crayola markers. The Postal Service doesn’t ask a bunch of intrusive questions, like the private carriers do.  

These days, hearing the mailman drop off my mail is the highlight of my day (I’m always secretly hoping it’s the Prize Patrol bringing me a giant check!) I used to get 20,000 steps a day on my postal route when I worked for the USPS; now I can barely walk to my own mailbox before getting winded. That’s the life when you’re a Covid Long-Hauler living in the Smoky Mountains in rural Tennessee, I suppose. 

I always appreciated The Postal Service as my employer, but now I’m relying on them for medication and most of my supplies — like, I’m literally dependent on the mail to stay alive out here. I never know when my care packages will show up, but I know they eventually will. Between Jerry and the USPS, I’m covered!

Paulina Combow is a writer and stand-up comedian. She contributes to Reductress and Ladyspike Media and has had funny essays published in The Washington Post. Find her at

Disclaimer: This Article Is a Joke

Speaking of absurdity, did you know there are still over 40,000 people locked up on nonviolent cannabis-related charges around the US? It’s time to let them out.

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