My Tax Dollars at Work!

I had to renew my driver's license, and today was as good a day as any.  Why am I writing about this, you may ask?  Because if I don't, I'm going to go hunting for a clock tower.

Except, of course, that no one has any ammunition for sale.  Firearms are in short supply too.

One thing I've got is time.  I'm retired.  On the dole.  A has-been, and in some cases a never-was.  I've got an expired sell-by date, high mileage, and questionable taste in Internet sites that I read.  Hell, any moonbat worth her wings would decry me as a first-rate iconoclast and misanthropic racist.  It takes talent to memorize all that, but they've managed.

Having more spare time than spare change, I slept in instead of getting up at 6:30 AM EST, getting lit, and arriving early at the BMV.  Oh no, not me.  I got there around 11:30, and by 2:45 PM my number came up.  I didn't mind... okay, I'm lying.  Sure I minded, but what else could I do?  When I finally got called in I got a new girl who hadn't had the standard BMV Government Employee training, let alone the advanced classes in passive aggression, willful ignorance, and my own personal favorite, the demand for obtuse and irrelevant official documents.  Nope, not her.  She actually wanted to help me get out of this bureaucratic hell as soon as possible.

The rest of the place made up for her helpful cooperation.

All I want is a regular, standard license renewal.  To get this, Ms. Cooperation has to ask me about a half dozen or so questions, all having to do with my criminal past and lack thereof, my unimpaired mental state, and the fact that I don't generally run wild for days on pills and wine before someone claps me in the sneezer and I sleep it off.  The trouble has nothing to do with lying to Ms. Cooperation - it has everything to do with the tribe of porch monkeys that come in on my heels and start screaming at each other and the guy at the door, who, by the way, is black, in his twenties, and is both knowledgeable and helpful to everyone.  Even this tribe of howler monkeys.

So Ms. C. screams "Do you want to fargo on my blim?"

I can't hear a fucking thing.  She tries again, and about the third time she catches a lull in the racket and I understand that she's asking if I want a standard license, which is good for driving and nothing else, or an advanced license, which is accepted by the Federal Government as a valid ID, should the Feds bust me for something - because I sure as hell am not flying anywhere.

Then it's time for the eye test.  Oh boy oh boy.  I've never been good at tests.  You could ask my old public school teachers, but most of them are dead.  In fact, I'm pretty sure all of them are dead as last week's fish wrap, and with two or three exceptions, that's a blessing not in any kind of disguise.  She sprays the device off.  I doff my hat and press my head to the screen, which turns it on.  She asks me something that I can't understand (because it's still feeding time at the primate house), so I reflexively pull back.  She laughs.

"Did you see a light?"

"Yeah, a red one on both sides."

"Okay, here we go!"

Now, I know I flunk the eye test.  For one thing, I can't hear which line I'm supposed to read, but Ms. C. catches on to this pretty quick.  As for the rest of it, since I haven't had my morning snort - I figured it would be bad to come in for a driver's license smelling like a bar room - anyway, without my snort I can't read too well.  I don't know why, but that's the truth.  I do the best I can, and she passes me.  Which is nice of her, but like I said, she's new at this.

Then she takes my photo, and tells me to remove my mask.  I opine that I look better with it on.  Then I get a piece of paper and Ms. C. informs me that, congratulations, I'm done, and in 2-3 weeks my license will come in the mail.

The best part about this whole thing is that I ran into an old guy and his wife in the parking lot.  He was a vet (Korea, Navy Officer) and a member of the NRA.  He asked me if I had a thousand rounds of ammo, and I told him if you piled it all together it might be.  He nodded and said that was good enough, then reminded me that 'we got to do what we got to do'.  He also had a dog with him.

Now, first impressions and all being what they are, I liked this man.  He's in his 70s and shows a lot of wear and tear, but if shit came to sweat, I'd hitch my float to his parade just about any time at all.

Here's a hoist of the afternoon bourbon and a tip of the old fedora to old men like this everywhere.