plague journal 2 going postal down in acapulco (again)

Striding purposefully into the death star. (The Post Office.)
The newly installed automatic doors open with a metallick kerschiiiick.
I stand to attention before the girl in the Darth Vader face mask.
I am struggling not to try to be funny.
In my mind's eye I can hear her saying in James Earl Jones' voice:
"I find your disrespect for the Corona Virus most disturbing."
Then she reaches out with those unholy telepathic powers and begins to throttle me.
It's taking her an awful long time.
Like those lightning bolts from the evil emperor in Return Of The Jedi, the telepathic strangulation power isn't all its cracked up to be.
It takes ages to actually kill you.
And those lightning bolts look amazing, but you get hit about fifty times, and you're still going strong, ("Ah no, please your majesty, help, stop, ouch, oh that tickles, ha, ha, please, have mercy. heee heee. oh help, etc etc.") and if you stop laughing long enough to find your light sabre, you're going to make the evil emperor fart those lightning bolts out his ass.
I'm just saying is all.
But I digress
Bored with the spectacle of me imagining myself being strangled by the Darth Vader girl, the manager of the Post Office raps out a la Grand Moff Tarkin (Who he? Peter O'Toole to you Guv. I mean Peter Cushing. Peter O'Toole would have been great in Star Wars. Or in the Post Office for that matter. But Peter Cushing was good at whatever he did.): "Enough! Vader release him."
I drop limply to the floor.
"This is not as good as the opprobrious televisual cartoon South Park parody of the same scene with the baby in it," I gasp.
"Do you want to pay an electricity bill?" the girl asks in real life.
"I do," I manage weakly.