Breaking News. President of the United States Temp just stepped in it.

In his almost four shambolic years, he has committed more mortal sins than Benito Mussolini.

But this week, he put the lifts in his shoes, and went after Mr. and Ms. Mail Carrier, those blue uniformed American heroes that put your Social Security check, heart pills, retirement checks, and birthday and Christmas cards in your mailbox.

It was a blatant, in-our-face attempt to corrupt the election process, and deny you your chance and right to vote.

For some reason, POTUS Temp and his lackeys seem to have forgotten that Republicans of all stripes, including his beloved MAGA rally crowd, also get those heart pills and Social Security checks. Whoops!

Once the Trump circus began, POTUS Temp drove out a clown car full of lickspittle, brown-nosing spaniels, most of whom are in and out of prison. This summer, he gave us a character right out of a French opéra bouffe.

Meet Louis DeJoy, an American businessman and major Trump fundraiser.

Hold the applause.

We learned, as we clutched our pearls, that DeJoy is the first postmaster in 20 years without ever even waiting in a Post Office line.

At his order, 600 high-speed mail sorting machines were scheduled to be dismantled and removed from postal facilities.

Mail collection boxes were removed from the streets in many cities. Then, after photos of boxes being removed were viewed on social media, a postal service spokesman (read: sub-lackey) said they were being moved to higher traffic areas. Red Square? Champs Elysees? The Brandenburg Gate in Berlin? But he assured us that the removals would stop … until after the election.

As he spoke, his stooges kept ripping up the multimillion dollars worth of said sorting machines for salvage like old World War II bombers, and tossed them in dumps and parking lots. He lied.

Cathie Crute of Portland holds a sign calling for Postmaster General Louis DeJoy to resign. Ben McCanna/Staff Photographer

But about the victims? Do you know your mail deliverer’s name? Mine is Royce Rossingnol. You should ask these questions the first chance you get.

I know there are women out there now, in the trucks, walking the streets. The famous trope said, “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” We salute them, revere them.

These days, your letters, if you and yours still write, arrive almost like magic — like they were delivered by fairies in the middle of the night. But they weren’t. The mail was put there by human beings, creatures with arthritis, bad feet, allergies and yes, cancers, just like you.

I speak with anger and historical credentials. I am the child of generations of Irish men who got off the boat and immediately became cops, priests and mailmen, professions known then and now as “Irish welfare.”

Full disclosure: I once delivered Christmas cards. All the Devine boys delivered mail in the month leading up to Christmas. Just before brother Jim went to sea on the battleship Massachusetts, he delivered Christmas mail.

A young Charlie Klein during one Depression Christmas packed his own Valentine into his bag, for my sister Eileen.

Billy Keogh, who had loved her since the sixth grade, came with his bag of mail and a personal love note for Rita.

So you see, I have ancient skin in this crooked game, and the “Red Ties” have stepped on the flowers in my heart.

Well, that’s all for today. I have to stop now. The postman is at my door with a box, and they tell me he only rings twice.

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.