Recently I had to go to the DMV. My reasoning was I wanted to waste an entire week waiting for help. Really it was because I got a ticket for having expired plates. I would have loved if I got some warning in the mail about this. They had been expired since at least November. The car used to be under my mom’s name so when she died I had to switch it over to mine. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I contemplated a sex change operation followed up by a name change to make things easier. Anything to avoid having to deal with government workers. Even if it means testicular removal.
I headed to the DMV which is conveniently located down the road from my work which is inconveniently located an hour away. I had been to this DMV before many times. I have lots of good memories. This is the same place I failed car inspection for having bad windshield wipers. I got there early armed with every piece of identification I could find. My birth certificate, social security card, registration, license, passport, copy of my finger prints, picture of my genitals signed by a doctor, a trustworthy friend who could identify who I am, a bill in the mail with my address, an old high school yearbook, and the video of me being birthed. They told me I was still a few points short, but would let it slide since I put in a valiant effort.
I filled out the form with a giant pen next to a Mexican guy who didn’t like me standing next to him. I got into the proper line and was treated like an idiot. I had to go back out to my car to gather up information on my insurance. I returned to see a woman with a television mom haircut in my spot and a new person helping out at the number 4 cubicle. An elderly black woman approached me and said she would help me. I knew this was a good sign as elderly black women can usually see the future. I had it made.
(“I predict white women everywhere will buy whatever I tell them to buy even if it doesn’t work or they do not need it”)
She returned shortly after saying that my registration was suspended. She seemed suspicious of me. Probably because I was the only one there who spoke English or wasn’t arguing. I was informed that due to my switching insurance last year it probably suspended it and that I should have filled out a form in the mail. So I think that makes two things that I never received in the mail. I was given a copy of the 4 step directions to get to the DMV in Trenton and after a little bit of debating I decided I would not go that day and hope that a revolution started before I had to get this problem resolved.
(The last time Americans revolted men died so young that they had to wear fake white hair just so we’d know who would die soon of natural causes)
Americans are too big of whiners to start a revolution so two days later I attempted to get to the Trenton DMV. If you need to know anything about Trenton it’s this, it stinks. I’m convinced it’s the worst state capitol. Or is it capital? I never remember that dumb rule. There’s literally nothing to do there. There are no happening spots. No places to pick up drunk chicks and drive them into the woods before killing them. The directions I had said that parking was across the street from the DMV. The problem with things being across the street from buildings that take up an entire block is that there are 4 across the streets. I pulled into the employee parking and had to back out. Then I did it again into another employee parking lot. How many employees are there at the DMV? I saw about 7 people actually working. I think the rest of the employees died years ago in some tragic terrorist attack and they’re afraid of moving a current employee’s car. Yeah, they could look up who the car belongs to but this is the DMV. That would require them to work.
I found parking and hit a light post. I hit lots of light posts. I moved my car because I was concerned that I hit the light post so hard that it could topple over. I’d let someone else suffer due to my mistake. I got out of my car as most people do when finished parking. I wasn’t sure if I should cross the street in the middle of the road or walk to the end and use the crosswalk. An outdoor adventurer, a homeless man with a giant garbage bag, led the Pickett’s Charge across. I followed at his side every step of the way. Who says the homeless are useless? Their good for shielding us from oncoming traffic.
(I prefer the homeless shield to shield my home)
The first line I got into looked promising. I figured this would go pretty quick. The receptionist in the front sent me to cubicle number 25. At 25 I was met with a woman with a dead hand. Maybe it was broken, but it also looked kind of tiny. Dead hands also amuse me so let’s pretend that’s what it was. She too thought I was retarded for having a problem with my motor vehicle. She gave me a blue note card with the number 229 on it and informed me that I should take a seat and wait to be called. That’s when the fun began.
I sat waiting to be called as my girlfriend texted me and picked a fight. Great, I’m at the worst government department on the planet, in a terrible city, still have to go to work later in the day, and now my girlfriend is telling me how much of a shit I am. If a man ran into the room with a gun my life would have improved. It was about 40 minutes before my number was called. They even started at 220 so I wasn’t that far away. It was that gap between 228 and 229 that killed me. That took 15 minutes. When I was called I eagerly popped up and made my way over to cubicle number 20. Maybe I would get this all resolved in under an hour.
The woman at cubicle 20 was an elderly black woman. I explained to her the situation and made sure to throw in about how I only changed insurance because my mom’s death. She didn’t give me an “oh child peace be with you” which I was hoping for. She disappeared briefly and I took a look around her office space. She had stuff for the Dallas Cowboys and a lot of breast cancer stuff. I was going to use this to my advantage. Troy Aikman, Don Meredith, mastectomies, any names or words I could think of popped into my head. If I couldn’t beat the system I was going to charm them into being nice.
(Hopefully none of these women ever get breast cancer. They’d be forever unemployed)
Cubicle 20 worker returned and told me she was going to do some “soul searching” to fix my problem. I thanked her and took a seat, again. This time things were more crowded. People were watching movies on DVD players. Long movies too. I think the guy got through the first two Star Wars movies and got to the first Ewok sighting in the third. I listened to a few conversations too. New Jersey stereotypes in front of my talking like Tony Danza and being fat and greasy really got on my nerves to the point I almost sat in the chair in front of the kid who kept kicking it. My number was called about 10 minutes later and I returned to Cubicle 20.
For the first time in history someone received good news at the DMV. I was told that everything had been fixed and I need not worry. My plates were now up to date. I had to sign one form and I was set. Before leaving, the cubicle 20 worker showed me sympathy. She even asked how my mom died and before I could give an honest answer she said “What it cancer?” Now I had my problem resolved and she was very nice to me, but I had already planned out in my head to pretend that it was cancer. You know, for bonus points. I said “Yes” because saying “No” would have raised more questions and ruined the connection we had made. It felt like if I didn’t say my mom died of cancer or tackling a Washington Redskin running back I would have had to wait longer. She told me that my mother would always watch over me and I know if that’s true she was probably laughing at my taking advantage of someone else. If you think I’m a jerk-off for doing this, remember, this was the DMV I was dealing with. I was ready to tell her that I had breast cancer to get quicker service.
I got my new registration really quickly from a Spanish man across the way. I headed out to my car and used another homeless man, this one carrying boots, as a shield. I got into my car and drove off into the sunset. That’s the great thing about the DMV. You can drive there into the sunrise and by the time you leave it’s the sunset. Get it? Because it takes a long time. The moral of the story; don’t trust mailmen, use the horrible things in your life and the lives of others for your convenience, and jokes from the 1980s are still relevant.
(Tomorrow, Airline Peanuts!)