The heavy, rhythmic thwack-thwack of the sorting machine was usually the only sound in the Bikini Bottom Post Office, but today, it was drowned out by the heavy breathing of a starfish in a mission-critical uniform. Patrick Star wasn't just a mailman; for the next twenty-four hours, he was the self-appointed "God of Correspondence."
"Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor Gloom of Pelagic Darkness," Patrick whispered, tripping over his own oversized shorts, "shall stay these messengers from the swift completion of their... sandwiches." [S13E18] Patrick The Mailman
As the mob closed in, Patrick did the only thing a true professional would do: he climbed into a nearby mailbox, labeled himself "Return to Sender," and waited for the afternoon pickup. He might not have been the best mailman, but he was certainly the most delivered. The heavy, rhythmic thwack-thwack of the sorting machine
"That'll be four cents for the wake-up call," Patrick nodded solemnly, ignoring the muffled, clarinet-flavored rage behind him. He might not have been the best mailman,
"Star!" Sheldon barked. "You’re not a licensed carrier! You’ve sent the Mayor’s tax returns to a jellyfish field and delivered a box of live sea-urchins to the local retirement home!"