DMV
is an adventure in society
What
comes to mind when you think of summer?
Hanging out at the beach? Bathing your liver
in alcohol? For one miserable day of my
summer, it was none of the above. In early
May, I carelessly trashed my license renewal
form. In doing so, I volunteered myself
to personally make the journey from the
cool confines of my home (OK, my parents'
home) to the third world melting pot commonly
known as The Department of Motor Vehicles.
The DMV has all the amenities a modern government
office should have -- a drinking fountain,
toilet -- that's about it. But what makes
the DMV standout from all the other state
run facilities is its award winning clientele.
If
we are characterized by what we eat, then
the DMV is characterized by the throngs
of degenerates who enter its doors. Now
I'm not saying that I'm any better than
the usual suspects indigenous to the DMV
but allow me to share my observations. It's
as if someone took the lawless cast from
the last ten seasons of "Cops," threw them
into a concrete pot -- the result being
a vile witches brew of the worst society
has to offer.
First
off, there is always the disgruntled man
or woman -- the one who feels that he or
she is being wronged by the system and at
the same time demands an explanation why
"the man" won't let them be!
Then
there is the culture shocked migrant, you
know, the ones who if told there were a
fee for making left turns would gladly pay
up. Technically, they might be the smartest
ones of the bunch! Instead of making a trip
to the DMV a solo outing, they round up
the youngsters, pile them into the Ford
Festiva and make a day of it.
The
next eyesore is a classic -- the real McCoy!
You may have seen this strain of human at
the court building, the local 7-Eleven or
perhaps any number of McDonald's. But one
thing is for sure, you can always catch
him at the DMV. I'm talking about that overweight,
unkempt, disheveled mastodon with the token
blotch of ketchup above the left breast.
What's most disturbing is that you don't
see him coming; you feel the heat being
emitted off his body. Occasionally, he might
get a little too close and actually deposit
moisture from his arm onto yours! As if
it couldn't get any worse, he leans in and
with a rolling thunder asks, "Hot enough
for ya?" The minute his breath hits you
it's over. You throw in the towel you wish
you had to wipe your body clean from this
behemoth's perspiration!
By
this time you've had enough. However, before
you leave, you notice one more individual
who might be the worst of all. Forget
the migrants, the hellish youth, the socially
oppressed, the engorged beasts. What's more
sickening than the wafting stench of sizzling
armpit is the man or woman who has their
arms crossed, nose in the air and stick
up their buns. Their petrified disposition
tells me that they might wipe down their
seat with a moist towelette. But I guess
this is what the DMV is all about: a place
where different races, classes and odors
can mingle and like The Beatles said, "Come
together." There are two times in life when
we are all equal, when class structure is
non-existent -- in a pine box and at the
DMV. The DMV offers not the worst, but rather
everything in general that society has to
offer.
Who
are the usual suspects of the DMV? Not I?
Take a look in the mirror, stupid. On a
positive note, it's sort of like the United
Nations on a smaller scale; but instead
of Cofi Anon being full of it, at the DMV,
it's only a baby's diaper.
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