Sometimes snow, and rain, and heat, and gloom of night, and ennui, and achy feet, and trichinosis, and cable tv, and startling quantities of beer stays this courier from his appointed rounds.

The mailman is drinking heavily and unable to cope with the petty problems of the yahoos that write in to Annie’s Mailbox. Next year he may crawl out of bed to tackle some of the more egregiously vapid letters he previews on his route, but not this year. Not this year.