I have an unhealthy obsession with "Brown".


Although it may sound this way, this isn't a plea for a free one way ticket to a snazzy drug rehab program where I can hob with the stars. Nor do I like to dress up in frocks that resemble tree bark from around the world.


I'm talkin' about the UPS man, man.


Not the men themselves (although the disgusting seriously girly side of me enjoys that added bonus of cute guys in pants. Not in short shorts, there is something very wrong about a guy in short shorts.). It's not even the big roaring trucks (Machines just don't do it for me, unless they can render three seperate 3D models in under five minutes and run six other programs in the background.), it's the stuff.


Oh lord, my kingdom for a box.


The Gods are tempting me. Once again they're using me for their odd amusment. Over the past month I have seen not one, not two, but six unattended UPS (or Fed Ex, I don't discriminate) trucks. Left all alone on a corner or in a parking lot, side of the truck gaping open where the door should be, calling me to come inside and rip it off.


I'm sort of like a oversexed guy who's been locked in a dark closet with nothing but his hand for ten years and gets rescued by like minded nymphos fresh from the local gymnasium. Boxes. They butter my muffin. Crisp my cracker. Chew my gumball. Yeah, you get the point.


It's so very upsetting too, when the nasty cricket in my head kicks in and sings me out of causing a high speed police chase while littering the freeway with packing material.