11.28.2007

How I Dealt with the Liars, Power Mongers, and Mindless Drones of the Department of Motor Vehicles




My wallet was stolen last week. I'm not upset about that. It's one of those things that happens in life that you can't really do anything about. It's one of those "Don't sweat the small stuff," issues. So, I don't. Sweat the small stuff. By the way if you are one of the many thousands of persons across this great land of ours who is employed by the Department of Motor Vehicles, I'd like to take this brief opportunity to speak directly to you when I emphatically say, "suck the rancid puss from my free flowing, rotten putrid gangrenous wounds you herpetic syphilis spreading bunch of vile bottom feeding parasitic bile infused brain dead soulless inbred vomit slurping excuses for excretion covered butt plugs. "


Those of you who don't work for DMV, but who have at one point or another had to deal with those I just mentioned above may be wondering why I am being so very kind hearted in my salutation to them. Well, you see, I had to get my license replaced after my wallet was stolen this week so I went into the DMV located in the downtown central business district of the major metropolis where I live. When I arrived, I was amazed to find that there were only three other people ahead of me and all of them were at the counter. I walked up to the front of the line, which was me, and stood patiently behind the thick yellow line that is drawn on the floor indicating where you should patiently stand.


After about ten minutes, with the realization that all three of the people at the counter were having their little issues which they needed to deal with, I grabbed a driver's manual, sat down, and started to read it. I was still the only other person in the room. I chuckled when the guy at the counter closest to me stormed away looking very exasperated. I stood once again behind the thick yellow line about 6 feet from the counter and waited for the, shall I say, female behind the counter to summon me. 


And I waited. And I waited. And I sniffed the way you do when you are in a public restroom and someone comes in and begins to approach the stall you are in. It's not a rude sniff. It's a "Hey, I'm just letting you know I'm in here," kind of a sniff. Not a snooty sniff , nor a snotty sniff, and certainly not a stiff sniff. For there is nothing worse that a snooty, snotty, stiffy, sniff. I digress.


So, I gave my little sniff and once again waited to be acknowledged. The, shall I say, female behind the counter waited a beat or two, then picked up the microphone attached to the counter and said,"71". I raised my hand and made my best "are you talking to me?" face while slightly pointing back at myself. I struck that pose and waited for, shall I say, her to look up. Once again she picked up the microphone, looked right through me and said "71". I was still stuck in my "does that mean me?" pose and she never even blinked at me. In disbelief, I turned and looked around the empty room just in time to see a happy little orange faced man (who oddly resembled one of Willy Wonka's Oompa Loompas) step up to a mechanical looking box, punch a little red button and tear off the paper ticket that was being fed to him.


"HEEEYYA! Wa I nebber get a such looky in my days! I'na nuhber sebendy wahn, mang! He exclaimed.


I turned back to see the, shall I say, female spreading, shall I say, her hairy upper lip into what I think was a grin, and begin motioning the little loompa man up to her counter. I blurted out something about not wanting to be rude but just wanting to let her know that I had already been waiting there for about 15-20 minutes and maybe it would be possible for me to just step up and get a quick license replacement. The, shall I say, female scowled at me and I felt my spleen begin to atrophy. 


Then, shall I say, she, hissed, "What is your number?"


"Number?" I quipped. 


"Jess, Mang! I'na goat de nuhber for da mi looky boy is nebber I done no," said the little loompa man.


"Well, I didn't think I needed a number. There were only three people in front of me."


As the little loompa man handed his papers to, shall I say, her, she took great delight in telling me that there were four people in front of me counting Mr. Vladechesxjpqmez.


"Jess, Mang I gotta looky den into a hangd oh mang," he confirmed.


As they started to transact their business I went back to the mechanical box and pushed the button. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Nothing. I pushed it about 28 times really fast. The box, of course, started spewing out tickets like... well, like a mechanical ticket box that has just had its button pushed about 28 times really fast. I gathered up the jackpot and took one for myself throwing the others away. Then I waited.


I had been nodding off for about 10 minutes when I was awakened by the little loompa man storming by me on his way out the door. He was waving his little loompa fist and grumbling something about something that sounded like a ploofborg and a mitlenboger. The only word I could truly understand was the word "bitch" which he slipped in almost every other word. I stood behind the thick yellow line and waited. 


The, shall I say, female behind the counter picked up the microphone and said, "72".


I looked down at my ticked and cringed when I saw that the ticket I had was numbered 84.


The digital number reader board on the wall clicked. And the, shall I say, female said,"73". And smiled.


I think I muttered, "You gotta be kidding me ." I walked back to the waste can where I had deposited the other tickets and started rifling through the trash trying to find a lower numbered ticket. By the time I found the one numbered 74, shall I say, she was on number 75. I wasn't going to play that game. I looked down and saw number 76 just as number 76 was called. 


I held up my ticket and said, "I am number 76."


Shall I say, she motioned to me to proceed toward her. 


"I suppose you'll want to see my ticket, right?" 


The ever so hairy lipped grin reappeared across the 40 miles of bad hiway that made up her face and the oversized hacky sack head that it was attached to nodded in agreement.


I handed her my ticket which she tore in half in the most dramatic way possible. She looked at me and said, "May I help you?"


I told her that I needed to have my license replaced. She asked me what I had as proof of my identification. I produced four bank cards, one of which had my picture laminated into it, several pieces of certified mail, my electricity bill, and some notices from the county including court documents. I had called my state's DMV headquarters just before coming in to see if I had enough of the correct documents to get my license replaced and had been told that I had plenty. She scanned my proof of ID and told me that she wasn't going to issue me a new license. I asked her why and she told me I didn't have enough proper identification documents. She brought out a blue sheet of paper that listed three different categories of acceptable ID; primary, secondary, and alternative. She told me that I would need to have at least 1 primary, and two secondary, or 2 secondary and 2 alternative, or 2 primary, 1 secondary, and 1 alternative. 


My head started to spin and I told her that I understood the list she was showing me, but the only documents I had were the ones in front of me. I asked why they wouldn't suffice. I asked why I had been told by DMV headquarters that my documentation would be fine. I wanted to unzip her human female costume and let her giant alien lizard head come out so I could se her giant red alien lizard forked tongue, but my spleen started to atrophy again which was a sure sine that she would have eaten me right then and there had I done so. So, I went on to explain that all of the normal forms of backup ID that I had - my copy of my birth certificate; my voter's registration card; my social security card; were in my wallet. Then it occurred to me that, shall I say, she, was sitting in front of a computer monitor. She was sitting in front of an LCD monitor that was newer than the one I have, and bigger too.


"Can I see your screen for a second," I asked.


"I'm sorry I can't do that," she said


The monitor was at such an angle that if I just leaned over the counter a little I could see the screen. So, I did. Just as I suspected, there on the screen was a full color, larger than life photograph of me, my own self, as I appeared on my last license. And down below were pictures of me from previous licenses.


I began to argue that the blue sheet of paper with the lists of acceptable proofs of ID stated that a bankcard and a letter or notice from a county, state, or federal court was all that was required. She told me that the court notices had to be from either a court proceeding involving a divorce, a name change, or an adoption. She asked me if I had my marriage license with me. I told her I wasn't married. She asked me if I had my voter's registration card. I told her it was in my wallet. She advised me to go fill out a voter's registration and wait for the card to come in the mail. I just looked at her with eyes that were having my soul sucked out of them, then I asked why the bank cards, especially the one with my picture laminated into it, along with the photo on file from my actual driver's license wouldn't be sufficient. She shot back that the rule stated that I would have to have a second bank card with or without a picture. Well, I did have a second bank card! I showed it to her. She said that it would have to come from a different issuing agency. 


"But the accounts are different and they were started at two different branches."


"Yes, I understand your frustration," she drooled. Then she did the hairy lip grin, this time revealing a few of the little brown fossils in the collection of what I'm sure she thought of as teeth. I think I could smell them. Yes, I smelled them, and they smelled like butt. Bad butt. Big bad bathless butt.


I felt the best thing to do at this point was to simply throw myself at her mercy; bare my throat to her, and plead for the bottomless compassion I knew she must posses deep down inside of her voluminous bile pumping heart. I heard my spleen start to squeal in horror. So, I said, " I can't believe that you can't use the very ID your agency issued for me to use as official ID in all matters related to your agency as definitive proof of my unquestionable identity." And with that, she said, " I'm done dealing with you. Step aside."


"I'm not done here. I don't have my new license, do I?"


"No, and you'll not be getting one today," she flatulated ( there is no such word as "flatulated" , but there should be. If it comes up for a vote, please remember how very well I used it and how you knew exactly what I meant at the time. Then, please cast your vote with me in favor of "flatulated" as used in the sentence - The quadulator flatulated.) ( there is no such word as "quadulator", but there should be...I digress, again.)


"There are people out there committing identity theft with ill gotten state IDs and licenses whom were able to get them with less proof of identification than I have here today," I said.


"Yes, there are," she snorted. "But you still won't be getting your license here today."


Dear Reader, I know that this is a bit unconventional, but after writing the last 2,148 words I have come to realize two things: 1.) This short snappy and very entertaining story could easily become a really boring and commercially weak novel. 2.) It makes me just as enraged to write about what happened as it did to live the events, and that will lead to nothing but the same vengeful retaliation you are about to become privy to momentarily.


So, to be brief... I demanded to speak to her superior who was at lunch. I waited 15 minutes past the time the branch manager was due back, and when she finally swaggered into the room my she demon lizard princess got to her before I could and conspired with her to just stick a big fat "NO" up my already painful barbed wire raped rectum. 


I left telling the supervisor that I really, really, really hoped that she was in the same kind of situation I found my self in someday, but I really, really, really, really hoped that I was on the other side of the counter. As I left, the other two pasty fleshed, marrow sucking, vomit mongers who were on duty behind the DMV counter gave me a very sarcastic elbow, elbow, wrist, wrist wave goodbye. 


I got into my car and started driving home, but I'll be damned if I was going to be defeated by this butt licking puke depository. I picked up my cell phone and called DMV headquarters. When the customer service rep answered the phone I told her on no uncertain terms what had happened and what I thought of the entire DMV which wasn't much to say the least. Then it got even worse. The woman I was talking to told me to go to another office. Another office? That would mean that the crap I had just gone through was not due to any sort of official identification policy, or methodology, but in fact, it would be due to a judgment call, meaning the question of whether or not I received my license was being answered by how a whimsical wind blew up the skirt of that abominable likeness of a putrid pile of pungent pig leavings. I was not going to be defeated.


I drove directly to a suburban DMV express outpost by my house, collected my self and walked in. Once inside I noticed that I was, once again one of three people waiting to be seen. I went to the box, gently pushed the button and received my ticket. Then, I proceeded to stand in line. I was able to suppress my anger and act as though I was even a bit bored. When I was called to the counter I walked slowly. When I got in front of the robot who was to help me I said, " Uh, I lost my wallet. Oh, and uh I need to uh, I need uh..."


The robot in front of me said, "You need a replacement?"


"Uhhh, yeah. I guess. But I don't have any ID." I said.


"Well let me see what you do have. You'd be surprised at what counts for ID." She said.


I gave her less than I gave the first shall I say, female, and didn't say a word. Tap, tap, tap went her fingers on the keyboard and up came my picture.


"There you are. OK, what is your mother's maiden name?"


I told her.


"Aaaaand, what is your address?"


I told her.


"Ally righty! Just step over there in front of the blue curtain," she said.


She took my picture and in about five minutes I was legal as Perry Mason (I know that was cheesy, forgive me.).


I took my new license and left. That should be the end. It was far from it, however. I felt my spleen start building up a spleenular resentment that was going to explode with all of the force of Mt. St. Helens and though I tried to resist it, every bone in my body forced me to drive like a bat out of hell back down to that G-d forsaken hell hole of a DMV office where I parked and strode right in like the pissed off, hell bent for election, advocate of the American people that I was. The room was packed. I waited until the poor sap at shall I say, her counter was done being flacked up the bart with a porpoise, then I walked up without a little numbered ticket, took my ID shoved it in shall I say her face and asked, "Do you know what that is?"


Before she could spread her ever so very hairy and massively scary lip I said, "It's my new license: The one I just got from the express office with half of the doc.s I came in here with for you." My voice rose to a level that could be heard in the outer reaches of the galaxy. 


I turned to face the people: My people: We the people, and proclaimed, "That's right! I just got this license using half of the documentation I used to get turned down here. And the reason is because this piece of drek (Yiddish for... look it up), is a living piece of human garbage and a liar."


"Well I..." she stammered.


"You are garbage and a liar and we all know it. Listen people. Don't let her infect your life with her thought vomit. Don't take any crap! You don't have to. We are Americans!"


And with that the crowd broke into applause as I walked gallantly out the door. Avenged and proud. Head held high. The DMV employees crowded the window to get a look at my license plate and were terrified when I turned and rushed up to the glass with my license and growled, "Filthy lying pieces of garbage."


It has got to be one of the dumbest things I have ever done.


It felt great. I highly recommend it over constructing a device that when placed well, and effectively, goes BOOM!

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2 Comments:

Blogger Mac said...

I have trolled into your blog and have decided to come out into the light and compliment you on your humor. You seem a tad unhinged, but that makes for a good story.

14/12/07 10:41 PM  
Blogger Mannis said...

Unhinged, unlocked, and slapping like an old wooden screen door in a late summer thunderstorm. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it.

2/1/08 4:29 AM  

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