We, postdocs, postulants in a postmodern hangover, are no more than the posterior in a postBayesian postwar environment that, akin to a postpartum product with a postmortem flavor, wake up from the posthypnotic trance of a postindustrial economy without posterity. Postcard postproducers with a postcode but no postoffice, we strive to postpone the postulate of the postcoital posture that caused so many posttraumatic effects, and try to make any post and every postil posthumous. Postoperative and postdated, our postfrontal pressure drives us posthaste to nowhere, perhaps towards the best postmillennial postcript our postcolonial nature could afford, offer, or dream of: a postnuptial remembrance of our prepostdoctoral honeymoon combined with a prePI stag night dream.