I Went "Postal"

I've been sending "comfort paks" to "HEROS", deployed for nigh over 2 years now. I do once -a-month mailings.
I've sent well over 200 of tha mothas, surpassed, I believe, only by "angel sk".
I know, all too freakin well how to fill out a 2976, dash A, custom's declaration form, thank you very much!

1) Bear down....HARD!...like ya did when giving birth. That motha fucka is 5 pages thick.
2) List your contents. "No sir-e-bob! Nothing flammable, hazardous, or fragile!" (The lil bottles of vodka and pre-cooked bacon are convieniently ommited. *snicker*)
3) Check your APO/FPO for accuracy at LEAST three times.
4) Fill out all other applicable boxes and, "re-direct to: Co. Chaplin", if your particular "baby" has been takin' small-arms fire, DAILY, from those silly, "peaceful Muslims".
4) Giggle hysterically at your packing finesse, and for jammin' 14 POUNDS worth of goodies in the "Flat-Rate" box.

I've gone to one particular P.O. in town (there are 3), at LEAST 75 times. Two, middle-aged , black wimmens work there. They KNOW me. They KNOW what is in the boxes, and WHERE THEY ARE GOING!
That said, it FREAKED ME THA FUCK OUT, time before last, when one of tha middle-aged, black wimmens, waited for me to lug in 9 boxes, heave 'em onto the counter, lay out the customs forms, IN ORDER, then picked up the first one and made some lame-ass comment 'bout box "numba fo", on the form.
I smiled, confused. "Huh? I've ALWAYS done it that way."
"Numba fo", is tha box where one is supposed to list the weight of EACH FUCKING ITEM in the box. "Numba fo", is approximately the size of a fuckin' POSTAGE STAMP! In the past, I've always written, in my neat penmanship of a serial killa, "Varied". Let me repeat....ALWAYS, and more than once, handed those forms to THAT PARTICULAR BLACK WIMMEN. Neva was a problemmo before, so I kinda laughed it off. "Maybe she's havin a bad day."
That altercation stuck in my mind tho. I'm possessed by a "Boy Scout" kinda mind. "Be prepared." Good thing.

Monday mornin', I lugged in multiple boxes, kicking them ahead of me as the line inched forward. As luck would have it, I ended up in "mad, black, wimmen's line", whose face VISIBLY CHANGED, when she saw her next hapless customer. Can you spell, "Sybill"? "Regan", in "The Exorsist" might be more appropo. Bitch looked like she was DYIN' to spew pea soup on me! I was purplexed. I'd never had a cross word with this woman, but here again, was that 'tude!
"I done tole you las time, you can't fill out numba fo like dat."
Me..."I'm sorry, but what PRECISELY is wrong with the way I filled it out?"
Her..."You gots to list the weight of ALL the contents in tha package."
Me..."But, I've done it this way for two years. It's virtually impossible to do that, and you know it."
Her..."Whal, I'm just doin' mah job! You can go to 'nutha office if ya like!" Afroshake, and nostril flair.
Me..."Well, I might just do that, but for the record....you're tellin me that YOU, acting as a United States postal worker, are correcting me for the good of all mankind, and that ANY postal worker afore yea, that accepted my custom's forms, as is, before this were.....INCORRECT IN DOING SO???"
Her..."Yes, I is."
Me...brandishing over 200 PRIOR custom's forms...SOME stamped by her chunky seff!!!...filled out the EXACT SAME WAY!!!..."Ya MIGHT wanna explain yer dedication to your J.O.B. and ATTITUDE to yer boss!"...as I revealed the tape recorder stashed in my pocket-book.
Nanner, nanner, nannnnnnner!!!