Thomas Wictor

Of course you know this means war.

Of course you know this means war.

The U.S. Postal Service has stolen another irreplaceable postcard.

As my Aussie pal Butters told me, that was a real show stopper. Probably a grenadier of Assault Battalion No. 5 (Rohr). The sleeve badge is remarkable.

The card was stolen in New York.

This means war. I spent the morning changing all my bills to paperless electronic payment methods. No more stamps for you, Postal Service.

When I’m forced to go to the post office, I’m going to use only the machines instead of the clerks. I’ve just sent a message to the Postmaster General, Patrick R. Donahoe.


How odd. The man in charge of this organization riddled with obese thieves who’ve rigged it so they can’t be caught and who use 80 percent of their revenue for salaries, pensions, and benefits has a massive double chin and looks ready to keel over from metabolic syndrome.

Anyway, I told General Donahoe that the automated postal machines are far superior to the humans. Hopefully that’ll cost some of you your jobs.

For packages I’ll use courier services now. The added expense and time are worth it, knowing that I’m helping bring about the death of the U.S. Postal Service.

Here’s the thing, you greedy, dishonest piggies: When you steal my cards, it saddens me, but then I get over it. Temporal issues no longer matter to me. You, on the other hand, are locked into eating, crapping, bright and shiny toys, money, and the thrill of being criminals who get away scot-free. Like termites, you’re mindlessly destructive consumers that aren’t exactly sentient.

You’ve stolen some of my best cards, but the most valuable ones have made it through, because I have a foolproof system that fat, ugly, smelly people in polyester pants can’t figure out. The only time my system fails me is when moronic German dealers refuse to cooperate.

The other day I had the great pleasure of seeing a €350-€450 German flamethrower-pioneer card go for €80, because the stupid dealer won’t sell to Americans. He had no idea how valuable the card was. It showed a staff sergeant-regimental machine gunner in a private-purchase tunic, and he’d been awarded the Iron Cross, First Class. I’m sure I can identify him by name. But the German dealer was an ignoramus, and some lucky stiff walked away with the bargain of the century.

I have scans of all my missing cards. Someday I’ll recognize one of them in a book or a collection. I may see it for sale online. When that happens I’m going to find you, Mr. Collector, and I’m going to collect things, such as your teeth.

Don’t believe me?

Good. The worst strategic mistake you can make is to underestimate your enemy. And I’m your enemy. Not only that, I have the means to follow through.

So, U.S. Postal Service. I’m now dedicated to your extinction, due solely to your predation. When your pensions are all canceled and you’re sleeping under a bridge, remember that you brought it on yourselves. Unlike me you have no resources.

Have a great old age as a ward of the state or in a homeless shelter, while Tim and I live comfortably in Texas.

Oh, and here’s one I got past your grasping trotters using my foolproof system. Austrian assault infantry sergeant with a brimless steel helmet and a crystal-clear death’s head badge. Your corrupt collectors would’ve paid you $500 for this, but it’s now safe in my house. This is a one-in-a-million image, and you missed it.

I’m going to be okay. When you lose your pensions, you’ll have no skills to fall back on. There’s no job that pays you to eat fatty foods and steal.

Enjoy your self-created hell.

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