I was standing in line at the Las Vegas post office. It was a long line stretching out the door and only one window was open. (And the fools in charge of the post office wonder why they’re going broke.) A tall, rural-looking man had just finished buying his stamps and he stepped away from the window. All of us in line took a step forward.
A moment later the man returned, standing off to the side of the line. He called back to the postal worker at the window with a rangy twang, “I hate to bother you, but could I get some different stamps instead of the ones you gave me?”
“Sure,” said the postal worker. Then he asked, “Which ones did I give you?”
The man answered, “Gay pride.”
I busted out laughing, followed by everyone else in line. The man explained himself. “I got nothing against being gay,” he said with that rangy voice. “I just don’t want it on my mail.”
The line chuckled and the postal worker said, “I understand.” He then exchanged the man’s stamps.
As for me, I bought a sheet of Batman stamps. I don’t want it on my mail either.