Words and Thoughts: Stav vs. The Mail, Again

Hello again, alleged readers. Well, it happened again. I know I said it wasn’t going to, but it did. I know I told everyone that they’d never have to worry about it happening, but apparently they did. Just when you think it won’t happen, out of nowhere, and through no fault of your own, it happens.

I got partially stuck in a mailbox again. The big blue one with the tricky door, as usual. I swear it was for a good reason this time though. As you know, Arby’s has “steak nuggets” now (I know, anything to avoid releasing the Billings, Montana files…). And as you should know, steak nuggets are at the center of a Venn Diagram that could be called “Things Stav Likes”: Steak, and small pieces of food in manageable sizes that I can pile up in my arms and run away with to enjoy later. So, steak in nugget form is pretty much all three of the hypothetical wishes I would use if I met a genie: Steak, make it small, make many of them. Done and dusted, thank you Mr. Genie Man, back to the lamp with you now.

However, I don’t have a genie, and I’m not allowed inside Arby’s at the moment, per se (see my previous works regarding Arby’s). So I got to thinking: I still haven’t been inside of the big blue mailbox, so there is no way to know what’s in there for sure. And if there’s no way to know for sure what’s in there, there’s no way of knowing, for sure, what’s not in there. And, I do know that steak nuggets could fit in there. And being unwilling to search the practically infinite expanse where steak nuggets might not be (a border saloon in Mexico, the sweeping steppes of Outer Mongolia, the rolling waters of Queensland’s Gold Coast, etc. etc.), I am willing to search the finite space inside the blue mailbox where the steak nuggets might be.

So despite all of my previous efforts to get into the big blue mailbox for lesser reasons (mail fraud, searching for chicken nuggets, believing that’s where Saddam was hiding, etc.), I figured that now, with a noble cause at hand (finding steak nuggets), I might finally transcend the oppressive barriers imposed on us by the physical reality in which we find ourselves residing in this life, and just sorta wriggle my way into the mailbox.

I could, in fact, not wriggle my way into the mailbox. But I also then got myself to a point where I couldn’t completely wriggle my way out of the mailbox. There I was, Schrödinger’s hapless cat; Jack’s complete lack of surprise; Stav stuck in a mailbox, again, without steak nuggets, again (but this time I know about the existence of steak nuggets, whereas before I did not, therefore my expanded awareness, leading to my increased desire, then only served to clarify my own perception of my own increased dearth).

And then for no reason whatsoever, the mailman came and called the fire department who cut me out of there with a Sawzall they’ve nicknamed “Deus ex Machina”, and I had to promise the nice fire-folk there, and the police Seargent they called, that I wouldn’t go near the mailbox again. And rest assured, Ol’ Stav absolutely won’t.

Unless there’s a very good reason to.