The Post Office, AKA The Tenth Circle of Hell

As a mother, there are many places I can no longer go on a regular basis: the bar, the strip club (because, you know, I went there all the time before kids), the movies and the post office. Something about this federal building of doom causes my normally cute children to become screaming, whining, tantruming terrors. As soon as we walk in, they bolt and start scaling the wall of locked post office boxes, ripping displays of priority mailers apart, and playing child versions of Japanese obstacle course game shows with people's legs and packages. Now, I have good kids. They're polite and loving and generally don't make childless people want to rip out their reproductive systems. But the second we walk into a damn post office they become these completely different people whose only goal is to make people look at me like I should be on Toddlers & Tiaras feeding my kids Mountain Dew and Pixie Stix smoothies. Is it the smell of mail and stamp glue? The disgruntled employees? The irresistible boxes with their endless playtime possibilities? Whatever the case, I now have the perfect idea for a career once my kids are grown- mobile post office. I'll do things the mail carrier won't, like sell stamps, weigh and accept packages and come straight to your door instead of sitting in the car honking like an asshole until you come out.