My mailbag is like Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction” or Alexander Godunov in “Die Hard.” You think it’s finished and suddenly it bolts upright in a tub filled with water or somehow removes a heavy iron chain from around its neck after an apparent strangulation.
If it were the Wicked Witch of the East, it would have wiggled out from underneath Dorothy’s house. Could have saved her a lot of trouble.
I tried to empty it six days ago, but here we are again.
Also indestructible are my rules against editing. I make my style clear without needing length to explain it.
And finally, an important reminder that my mailbag deserves its own bobblehead and yours is clogging the basepaths when kids run the bases.