Purgatory at the DMV
The Department of Motor vehicles... Few things are comparable to the joys of visiting with the DMV. For those who work there and those who, for some reason or another, are trapped for the remainder of their day, nothing compares.
As I walked in to the Department of Motor Vehicles, yesterday, I was greeted to the overwhelming stench of the unwashed sea of humanity who inhabits this government agency. I am speaking of those people who, for one reason or another, failed to make an appointment and, subsequently, have moved into the DMV for the remainder of their lives.
In most places, failing to make an appointment is not a life failure as it is in the DMV, it merely means an extra 10 minutes spent, waiting for your number to be called. However, at the DMV, it means an eternity of waiting in this earthly purgatory disguised as a government agency staffed with beasts who make a sloth look speedy.
When I arrived, despite the fact that I had an appointment, I was ushered into a line of people who had an appointment. Then, after being rudely talked to and given a form to fill out, by some DMV mongoloid, I took a seat amidst the unwashed masses who called the DMV home.
And, as I sat, watching the people around me, it dawned on me that most of them must have come up a chromosome short and that, if analyzed, they would all be relegated to a zoo enclosure to be laughed at by some Homer Simpson who was lucky enough not to come from the same bloodlines.
And so I sat, pondering the world of the DMV. How can there be so many ugly people in this world? Why are they all at the DMV as either customers or employees? Why the hell didn't they just send me a renewal through the mail? Why do people let their children run screaming up and down the aisles until they fall sprawling on the floor after tripping over my foot?
It was an accident, I promise. Though, I was not sorry. The child was clearly in need of some sort of pain for what he had been inflicting on those of us unlucky enough to be near him. Now, if only such an accident would happen to the mother, who let her child inflict his shrill pain upon us all.
Eventually, my name was, mercifully, called. At that moment I rejoiced, inside. I did not want to be outwardly enthusiastic about my escape for fear that I would be drawn back by some evil government sloth beast who enjoyed the suffering of humans, "just because".
Slowly, so as not to call attention to myself, lest some beast pounce on me, I made my way to window #13, where I began my quest, in earnest, for my drivers license renewal.
The woman was pleasant enough, I suppose. She was all smiles and kind words. Unfortunately, she was as slow as molasses in winter.
"No", I told her, "that is not how you spell my name or my street.
She smiled and made a correction. Her correction could not have been more wrong. Still, I smiled back, my patience waning.
So, I helped her. "The street is Van Nuys", I told her. "It's spelled V - like Victor, A - like Adam, N - like Nora, then a space and then N-like Nora, U - like union, Y - like yellow, S - like Sam.
The genius, I have decided, about the DMV is their ability to hire people who are incredibly patient and friendly while being infinitely stupid. You see, even after ten minutes of phonetics and explanations to this pinnacle of stupidity, she insisted that I lived on Vanora Nuys Blvd. And this, despite the fact that I had it written in plain English, right in front of her, on a small strip of paperwork.
Finally, after she got it right, I was told to go wait in another line where I would have a new photograph taken. This was a short line, having only two elderly women in front of me.
The first woman in the line handed her paperwork to the mongoloid DMV employee and then was directed to place her thumb on a device that would record her thumbprint. Several times she asked where to put her thumb, to be pointed at the small device. Several times she could not locate it, despite the fact that it was directly in front of her and, just below her eye level. How, I wondered, would this woman ever locate a stoplight or street sign if she could not locate the device directly in front of her?
After thumb printing was accomplished, the woman's picture was promptly snapped and the next woman in line came forward and, with very shaky hands, handed her paperwork to the future zoo exhibit who was, it turns out, employee of the month.
The old woman was then directed to place her thumb on the thumb-printing device in front of her. Unlike the previous patron, this woman had no difficulties locating the device. She did however have difficulty placing her thumb on it. You see; she shook worse than a nervous Chihuahua on a cold day.
After five minutes of fumbling with the thumb-printing device, the monkey behind the counter, finally, grabbed the woman's thumb and jabbed it on the device, holding it there long enough for it to print her. Then, she told the old woman to stand back, in front of the dingy screen, where she snapped her picture. Of course, the old woman had to primp a bit, before the picture.
Why do old women put lipstick where no lip resides? And what is the point of applying perfume before a picture?
I was next.
Quickly, I stepped forward, handed my papers to the monkey, put my finger on the thumb printing device, stepped back and got my picture taken, signed a piece of paper and then left. One minute and thirty-five seconds after I handed my papers to the DMV monkey, I was on my way back to work.
And as I drove my way back to work, it dawned on me. Somewhere out there, a shaky old woman and a blind woman are armed with drivers licenses and, presumably cars, to use as weapons against the rest of us.
Yes, the DMV monkeys had the last laugh.
