This is the thread for me, a letter-carrier booked off sick today in an attempt to recover some mental health. What makes me so darn grumpy? Physical exhaustion, that's what. I'm down to my last few ragged molecules of seratonin. I don't feel like playing rags and reels and shantys, just mournful gospel songs about suffering and death--"a few more tiring days await us, a few more weary nights must come". If it weren't for the opportunity to socialize with dogs and cats, I'd hate my job. And I love walking, mind you, just not so much of it.

But it's not weary Canadian letter-carriers who "go postal", it's American postal clerks, folks who work in the large mail processing plants. This is one of the few jobs for which junior high school really prepares you--the same sort of constantly shifting silly rules humourlessly enforced by the same sort of power-tripping sociopaths. Given that the US Postal Service functions as a holding pond for gun-savvy former military personnel with post-traumatic stress syndrome (hello there, Mr. Rambo), massacres are inevitable.
To learn more, just ask Charles Bukowski