As you can see from the photo I finally received the copy of MY PUSSY BELONGS TO DADDY that I won from eBay, but it took forever for me to receive it thanks to those motherless cocksuckers who drive for UPS in my area.
One of the things that an eBay buyer gets used to is the sometimes slow shipping used by certain sellers, but if the seller has a good rating I'm happy to wait, secure in the knowledge that my item will eventually arrive, be left in my building's lobby, and not be stolen by five floors worth of neighbors who very kindly leave packages outside of the recipient's door. But every now and then a package is shipped via UPS and that can lead to a number of problems; the drivers in my neighborhood are notorious and despised for not leaving delivery notices if you aren't there to take delivery personally, they take their own sweet time while allegedly making deliveries, often stopping to hang out at local bars or the low-rent brothel up the street (no, I'm not kidding), and sometimes deliver packages to the wrong buildings, sometimes even leaving packages outside to be damaged by the weather of stolen by local miscreants. All of these scenarios have happend to me over the years, and when I win something from eBay I request that the seller not use UPS for the reasons I just listed.
I had been expecting MY PUSSY BELONGS TO DADDY for almost two weeks, and when I emailed the seller to ask what was going on he mentioned that he'd sent it UPS. I wrote back to tell him I'd handle it on my end and that I didn't blame him for UPS not leaving me a delivery notice, explaining my previous hassles with them, to which he responded with,"Finally! Someone who understands about UPS!!!" I decided against asking him why he still used them if he knew they were problemeatic, and instead concentrated on getting my goddamned LP.
I called the dreaded Van Brundt post office on 9th Street near me and explained the problem; the clearly disinterested postal drone loudly smacked her chewing gum in my ear and with a mushmouthed ghetto drawl that would have made Stepin Fetchit whince she said, "Ah'll havvluk fawya." After putting on hold for a good ten minutes, she returned to tell me, "We ain't gotcho packidge," and as she was about to hang up I told her that the tracking information I got from the seller idicated that the item was indeed there and I also told her it was the size and shape of a record album. "Whatchoo talkin' 'bout?" she shrilled, and when I finally got through to her with the details she put down the phone, not bothering to actually put me on hold this time, and searched for my missing package while muttering, "Nigga makin' me look faw a muthafukkin' rekkid abbum, takin' me away from mah stories..." (NOTE: to those who don't know, "stories" is a blanket term for soap operas used by Blacks and trailer trash) Then, to my surprise and delight, another voice came on the line, this time sounding like someone who had made it out of the fifth grade, and informed me that the package was there and I could pick it up at my leisure.
When I went in early on Friday morning to finally get the item, I found myself first on line at the pickup window, an area that supposedly opened at 8AM, but didn't actually open that day until about ten minutes later, the clerk only bothering to come forward when roused by my incessant use of the buzzer and the irate shouting of the growing line behind me. The clerk who greeted me was none other than the distaff Stepin Fetchit, a frightening sight who defined outright hoochiness, what with her braided blonde weave, a "body by pork rinds" figure sausaged into a much too small (and tasteless) outfit most likely obtained at the Fulton Mall on remainder, enomous and trashy bling-bling earrings, and four-inch curved fingernails that made me wonder exactly how the fuck she could even wipe her own puddinglike ass.
"Oh," she said when I explained why I was there — remember, I did not have a pickup slip thatnks to the delivery douchebags — "Ah talktayoo onna phone yestiddy. I gotcho packidge ovah heah." She briefly vanished, and when she returned she threw my package into the safety airlock, one of those arrangements where they close your item inside a glass booth and when they have closed their side you can open the door on your side and take out your parcel. Finally, I had my record, one of perhaps two good things to happen to me all weekend, but I don't wanna talk about that; I was just happy to add MY PUSSY BELONGS TO DADDY to the Vault's album cover wall, and what a fine addition it is.
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