Death at The Post Office

Man approaches the counter of the post office with a delivery slip.

Man: Hello.  I’ve come to collect a package.

Postmaster examines the delivery slip.

PM: Can I please see your ID?

The man hands over his ID.

PM: Ok I’ll see if we have anything for you Mr… ah.. ‘Deeth?’

Man: Ah no, it’s actually pronounced ‘Death’. Brian Death.

PM: Mr Death?

Man: Yah.

PM: Brian Death?

Man: Yep.

PM: I’m sorry, but seriously, what sort of name is that?  Brian Death?  It’s like John Plague or Harry Pestilence. 

Man: I don’t know – it’s just my name.

PM: Oh well I guess you can’t chose what name you’re born with.

Man: Well, actually, I did choose it.

PM: You changed your name to Brian Death?

Man: Yeah.

PM: What did it used to be?

Man: Darren Death.

PM: But your last name is still death?

Man: Yes, and?

PM: Well, I would have thought that you’d have changed it to something less… morbid.

Man: What do you mean?

PM: C’mon now Mr Death, you can’t tell me that you’ve never realised that your last name also happens to be spelt and pronounced exactly the same as the word used to describe the action of expiring?  Of leaving behind this mortal world?  Of dying?

Man: Dying?  (The man ponders the question.) Mr Death.  Brian….Deaaaath.  Hmm.  You know what, I guess you’re right.  How about that?

PM: You’ve never noticed before?

Man: I guess it’s just never occurred to me.

PM: Hmm…  So what was wrong with ‘Darren’?

Man: The kids at school used to call me ‘man boobs’ – you know, because of my initials - ‘Double D’.

PM: Oh, I see.  Well just give me a second and I’ll get your package Brian.

Man: Thankyou.

The postmaster comes back from the back room with a scythe, looking apprehensively at the man.

Man: Oh it’s not for me, it’s for a friend…