I should like to deliver a first class cunting to the Royal Mail. I could deliver it second class but it would take another 2 days to turn up…
Finding myself at my lowest ebb, in utter hopelessness, with absolutely no other option, (including walking to the destination parcel-in-hand), then I am forced to call upon the “services” of the Royal Mail, or, indeed ParcelFarce to deliver items for me.
Overlooking the base ignominy of standing in a queue of curmudgeonly cunts with all the time in the world, notwithstanding the cataclysmic impertinence of the “What’s in the package ?” line of interrogation from the boss-eyed bellend behind the bulletproof glass – Here’s the cuntiest part:
“What’s the value ?” Fair enough question you may think.
No – If I wish to send anything VALUABLE, via these feckless fuck-buckets, then I must pay them an extra sum to insure MY package against:
1. Some light-fingered Royal Mail cunt taking a fancy to it as it passes through THEIR system.
2. Some heavy-handed Royal Mail cunt bouncing/booting/lobbing it around the various bins whilst it passes through THEIR system.
3. It mysteriously disappears whilst it passes, etc, etc.
WTF ? That’s like my local MOT garage saying they will test my car for the usual £44 but as it’s a classic Porsche* and therefore VALUABLE, I must pay some extra insurance in case:
1. Our lads take a fancy to your car and fuck off with it
2. Our lads drop it off the fucking ramp
3. It mysteriously disappears whilst it passes… (or in this case, fails).
Royal Mail ? Fucking cheeky CUNTS
*No, I don’t have a classic Porsche. It’s an old Astra Estate with 250K on the clock.
Nominated by Cunt Reviled
