Have all you readers managed to avoid the corona virus so far? Have you stocked up on emergency items such as extra edibles, medications, cinder blocks, bowling shoes, toilet paper, pogo sticks, and flame-throwers? You’ve most likely wasted your time and money because, according to our current orange-faced Randall Flagg (read The Stand by Steven King) occupant of the White House, we have nothing to worry about; it’s all a hoax precipitated by the Democrats (read George Orwell’s 1984). He stated it at a pep rally in South Carolina in front of a bunch of his cheering, slack–jawed minions (again, Steven King’s The Stand). I know I feel much better. With his vast medical knowledge, he wouldn’t lie and drive us to the brink of extinction just to make a point. By the time you read this information, though, we may already have been driven there, ready to follow the dinosaurs over the cliff to oblivion, just like Thelma and Louise.
Speaking of driving, if anyone should ask me, although I don’t know why they would, if I’d rather go to the Secretary of State Driver’s License Facility, possibly to get a new sticker for my license plate or have my appendix removed through my left nostril with a grappling hook, I’d opt for the appendectomy. I’ve never been able to complete my business to the facility in one visit. It doesn’t matter if I have every piece of documentation related to my car, plus my birth certificate, marriage license, ancestry records back to the 16th Century, the grade on my sophomore history mid-term, there’s always one more piece of documentation required that I don’t have with me, which sends me back home to find it.
Upon entering the office, I stand in line to get a number: 837. I look up at the screen to see where I stand on the wait list. Currently serving No 4. By the time my granddaughter gets married and has children of her own, my number comes up.
“There are two owners on the registration. You’ll need both signatures.”
I rush home to have my wife sign the form, then rush back and get on the wait list.
“If you want military plates, you’ll need your DD214.”
I rush home again to dig that up, rush back and get on the wait list.
“Give me your three dead fish.”
Three dead fish? I get my fishing gear, hoof it down to the river, manage to catch three good-sized carp, rush back to the office and get on the wait list. When my number comes up, I move forward and drop the now-decaying fish on the counter.
“What am I supposed to do with those?” asked the clerk.
“You wanted three dead fish.” I am a patient man, but my patience and energy are waning. Tears form in my eyes.
“Guppies. Three dead guppies. We have no room for those big fish.”
Couldn’t she have told me that and everything else from the start? I began thinking of easy ways to sell my car.
Even though I’ve slightly exaggerated the experience, you get the picture. Not a pleasant visit. I will say that over the past few years, the employees have become more polite and personable. In the old days you could never be sure they didn’t have a Secretary of State issued baseball bat behind the counter at the ready, to make contact with some portion of your head if you said something they didn’t want to hear, such as, “How do I renew my diver’s license?”
My father taught me to drive a car with a stick shift when I was 13. That was when I bought my first old car out of my paper route money, intending to fix it up so I could cruise the town when I turned 16 (I believe the statute of limitations has expired so I can safely tell this story). By the time I was ready to take my behind-the-wheel test to get my driver’s license, I knew and could perform everything in the Rules of the Road booklet. I, nevertheless, failed my driving test.
An older friend asked me which examiner I had. I told him.
“Nah, you gotta wait for the other guy.” (There were only two examiners at this office). The one you had flunks kids every time. Get the other guy. Drop a sawbuck on the seat when you get in the car. You’ll pass.”
My friend drove me back a week later. I waited for the other guy. When I got in the car, scared as heck, I laid a 10-dollar bill on the seat. If my friend was wrong, I could end up in stripes, breaking rocks in the hot sun somewhere west of Laramie. But the examiner picked up the bill, had me drive around the block, and passed me.
If any law enforcement officials are reading this and the statute of limitations hasn’t run out, the previous bunch of pap is a complete work of fiction, regurgitated from a brain damaged by drugs, alcohol, and ear-splittingly-loud rock & roll music. If the statute of limitations has run out…nevermind.