Another Day in Asshole World
I know, I know. The subject I am about to tackle is like shooting catfish in a teacup. It's an easy one to get exercised about, and I got myself good and exercised about it today, so here goes, like it or not.
While I was on my way to someplace or other today, I noticed that my car's registration sticker had a big "2" on it. Back in the days when things made more sense, that meant you had until the end of February to renew your registration.
But a couple years ago, I was heading home from work in a blinding frigging snowstorm at 2 a.m. and a cop started following me. I thought for a moment that this guy was making sure I was getting along OK, seeing as that it was snowing like a blue-balled bastard, but after about a mile his lights went on and he pulled me over. I risked going into a ditch pulling over, and the reason this asshole guardian of vehicle and traffic law stopped me, as it turns out, is that my registration was three days out of date.
It turns out my state had changed the law to make it so there is an actual date it expires, and you no longer have until the end of the month, but rather to whatever date is in that tiny type on the sticker. To make that long story short, I went to court over it just to be a jackass about it and wound up getting away with a $50 fine, and somehow avoided the temptation to wipe my ass with the money before giving it to those goddamned thieves at the court. I made it plain to the judge that I was none too happy about my tax dollars in my town paying cops to harass people in the middle of blizzards, and was probably lucky to get out of court without being charged with something else. I think the judge got the impression that I am a bit of a nut, but you know what? I don't care.
Anyway, that was that. So today, when I saw that "2" on the sticker I figured I better damned sight take a look at the registration and see what was what, and sure enough it had expired a few days ago. So since I didn't have a whole lot else to do I figured I would go to the Room 101 even Orwell couldn't have imagined, and of course that is the Department of Fucking Motor Vehicles.
I hate the DMV, and so do you, of course, unless you get around by rickshaw or something. I would rather be Vaselined from head to toe and shoved up an elephant's ass for an hour or so than go to the DMV, and the experiences are not too much different except that I would imagine an elephant's lower colon smells a little better.
The one I go to is in a little city across the Hudson River from my little city, and as DMVs go it really is not quite as bad as some I have been in. But it is still a horrible experience going in there.
I cannot for the life of me imagine where the people in line at the DMV come from. I have no idea why there seem to be so many horrific souls in those places. It is as if everyone born under a trailer and cursed with a misshapen head is in DMV every time I go in there, and they are all given these fucking forms that old Steve Hawking couldn't figure out even if he were wearing Tom Terrific's thinking cap.
So they are all trying to figure out the forms, and of course they never have pens even though for some reason people like that buy cars every 10 days or so and by their 600th time waiting in line in the fucking place should realize there are no pens to be had in there.
This place has an actual information line before you get to the real line, which is where they have some poor bastard who has to puzzle out exactly which of these forms you need and then circle which parts of it you have to fill out. It always seems I get stuck behind some guy who just bought a World War I tank and wants to figure out how to register it as a recreational vehicle or something like that, something so complicated that even the woman behind the counter doesn't know what to do with him,
So after waiting for 10 minutes behind yet another clown with some unsolvable motor vehicle riddle, I got up to the woman and explained that I wanted a registration renewal form. She was so delighted to get something easy that she actually threw...THREW...a pen at me, fully expecting me to not have one, which really amused me. I didn't see anyone else giving out pens to any of the wretches in this place, people who were wearing World Wrestling Federation dungaree jackets and the like, so I wondered why she singled me out as the jerk who would not have a pen. Well, bucko, I had TWO pens, for I wanted to make sure I had a backup in case the other shit the bed on line 4, so I just left the pen there and got in line right behind some guy who looked just like that old country singer Johnny Paycheck. I don't know what Mr. Paycheck's doppleganger had for lunch, but unfortunately I can tell you it wasn't pleasant.
So I wait and wait. And wait. And meanwhile, this asshole behind me decides to start a conversation with a guy from India who was in line behind him.
I have told people that the worst conversation I ever overheard was two rummies in a dive bar in Chicago arguing over which are boxer shorts and which are jockey shorts. (The guy who was wrong used as his supporting argument the idea that since jockeys wear pants with legs - as if anyone wears pants without legs - the underwear with legs are jockey shorts.)
This one today may have topped it. This asshole, this jerk, started this incredibly loud conversation with the guy from India. The asshole was a guy about 40 or so, and you could tell he was the kind of guy who just prided himself on being a man of compassion and worldly understanding, the kind of guy who has to tell everyone how fucking compassionate and understanding he is and how much he knows everything. He was like a bastard son of Cliff Clavin and Mother Theresa, and I will probably be struck dead for saying such a thing, but I can think of no better way to describe him.
This guy was unbelievable, and I mean it. He was going on and on and on with this poor guy from India, who it turns out was here doing a doctoral program at the local university. The guy from India had an accent, of course, which was a cue to Mr. Asswipe that he HAD TO TALK LOUDER, BECAUSE PEOPLE WITH ACCENTS WHO ARE DOCTORAL STUDENTS UNDERSTAND ENGLISH BETTER WHEN IT IS SPOKEN AS LOUDLY as possible, of course.
In the course of this conversation this guy mentioned at least nine times how he heard things on PBS or NPR, and you could tell how he was just proud as hell of himself for being so fucking smart that he could sit in front of a TV and watch shows on PBS. And he kept showing off how smart he was. He even asked the guy from India if he knew that Mumbai used to be called Bombay! The guy is from fucking India, jerk, and he is a doctoral student. I think he may have heard that a huge city in his country now goes by a different name.
This was all so unbearable that I dug around inside my coat to see if I had any earplugs. I wear earplugs in the office sometimes when I am trying to concentrate on something when there is a lot of noise around me, so the thought of having earplugs in my coat is not as ridiculous as it sounds. Sure enough, I had one earplug, and I ripped the son of a bitch in half and put half in each ear in hopes that I would not have to hear another word from this bleating son of a bitch, who at this point was telling the guy how he should rent a car and...guess what?...drive around and SEE the U.S., and was even giving pointers on nice highways to take. Meanwhile, this guy from India was probably wondering if he could get diplomatic immunity for killing this asshole, and I most certainly would have spoken in his defense.
I finally made it to the counter. The conversation continued behind me. I ripped out the earplugs and did my business. At which point the clerk's printer broke down, and that took more than 10 minutes to straighten out.
The final indignity, and you will probably not believe this, but it is true: the clerk made an error that caused my debit card to be charged $190 instead of $95. She told me that she could not undo it immediately, but that the charge would "probably" be taken off in a day or two, or five at the most.
Great. When it is, maybe I can send the extra money to PBS as thanks for all the entertainment.
While I was on my way to someplace or other today, I noticed that my car's registration sticker had a big "2" on it. Back in the days when things made more sense, that meant you had until the end of February to renew your registration.
But a couple years ago, I was heading home from work in a blinding frigging snowstorm at 2 a.m. and a cop started following me. I thought for a moment that this guy was making sure I was getting along OK, seeing as that it was snowing like a blue-balled bastard, but after about a mile his lights went on and he pulled me over. I risked going into a ditch pulling over, and the reason this asshole guardian of vehicle and traffic law stopped me, as it turns out, is that my registration was three days out of date.
It turns out my state had changed the law to make it so there is an actual date it expires, and you no longer have until the end of the month, but rather to whatever date is in that tiny type on the sticker. To make that long story short, I went to court over it just to be a jackass about it and wound up getting away with a $50 fine, and somehow avoided the temptation to wipe my ass with the money before giving it to those goddamned thieves at the court. I made it plain to the judge that I was none too happy about my tax dollars in my town paying cops to harass people in the middle of blizzards, and was probably lucky to get out of court without being charged with something else. I think the judge got the impression that I am a bit of a nut, but you know what? I don't care.
Anyway, that was that. So today, when I saw that "2" on the sticker I figured I better damned sight take a look at the registration and see what was what, and sure enough it had expired a few days ago. So since I didn't have a whole lot else to do I figured I would go to the Room 101 even Orwell couldn't have imagined, and of course that is the Department of Fucking Motor Vehicles.
I hate the DMV, and so do you, of course, unless you get around by rickshaw or something. I would rather be Vaselined from head to toe and shoved up an elephant's ass for an hour or so than go to the DMV, and the experiences are not too much different except that I would imagine an elephant's lower colon smells a little better.
The one I go to is in a little city across the Hudson River from my little city, and as DMVs go it really is not quite as bad as some I have been in. But it is still a horrible experience going in there.
I cannot for the life of me imagine where the people in line at the DMV come from. I have no idea why there seem to be so many horrific souls in those places. It is as if everyone born under a trailer and cursed with a misshapen head is in DMV every time I go in there, and they are all given these fucking forms that old Steve Hawking couldn't figure out even if he were wearing Tom Terrific's thinking cap.
So they are all trying to figure out the forms, and of course they never have pens even though for some reason people like that buy cars every 10 days or so and by their 600th time waiting in line in the fucking place should realize there are no pens to be had in there.
This place has an actual information line before you get to the real line, which is where they have some poor bastard who has to puzzle out exactly which of these forms you need and then circle which parts of it you have to fill out. It always seems I get stuck behind some guy who just bought a World War I tank and wants to figure out how to register it as a recreational vehicle or something like that, something so complicated that even the woman behind the counter doesn't know what to do with him,
So after waiting for 10 minutes behind yet another clown with some unsolvable motor vehicle riddle, I got up to the woman and explained that I wanted a registration renewal form. She was so delighted to get something easy that she actually threw...THREW...a pen at me, fully expecting me to not have one, which really amused me. I didn't see anyone else giving out pens to any of the wretches in this place, people who were wearing World Wrestling Federation dungaree jackets and the like, so I wondered why she singled me out as the jerk who would not have a pen. Well, bucko, I had TWO pens, for I wanted to make sure I had a backup in case the other shit the bed on line 4, so I just left the pen there and got in line right behind some guy who looked just like that old country singer Johnny Paycheck. I don't know what Mr. Paycheck's doppleganger had for lunch, but unfortunately I can tell you it wasn't pleasant.
So I wait and wait. And wait. And meanwhile, this asshole behind me decides to start a conversation with a guy from India who was in line behind him.
I have told people that the worst conversation I ever overheard was two rummies in a dive bar in Chicago arguing over which are boxer shorts and which are jockey shorts. (The guy who was wrong used as his supporting argument the idea that since jockeys wear pants with legs - as if anyone wears pants without legs - the underwear with legs are jockey shorts.)
This one today may have topped it. This asshole, this jerk, started this incredibly loud conversation with the guy from India. The asshole was a guy about 40 or so, and you could tell he was the kind of guy who just prided himself on being a man of compassion and worldly understanding, the kind of guy who has to tell everyone how fucking compassionate and understanding he is and how much he knows everything. He was like a bastard son of Cliff Clavin and Mother Theresa, and I will probably be struck dead for saying such a thing, but I can think of no better way to describe him.
This guy was unbelievable, and I mean it. He was going on and on and on with this poor guy from India, who it turns out was here doing a doctoral program at the local university. The guy from India had an accent, of course, which was a cue to Mr. Asswipe that he HAD TO TALK LOUDER, BECAUSE PEOPLE WITH ACCENTS WHO ARE DOCTORAL STUDENTS UNDERSTAND ENGLISH BETTER WHEN IT IS SPOKEN AS LOUDLY as possible, of course.
In the course of this conversation this guy mentioned at least nine times how he heard things on PBS or NPR, and you could tell how he was just proud as hell of himself for being so fucking smart that he could sit in front of a TV and watch shows on PBS. And he kept showing off how smart he was. He even asked the guy from India if he knew that Mumbai used to be called Bombay! The guy is from fucking India, jerk, and he is a doctoral student. I think he may have heard that a huge city in his country now goes by a different name.
This was all so unbearable that I dug around inside my coat to see if I had any earplugs. I wear earplugs in the office sometimes when I am trying to concentrate on something when there is a lot of noise around me, so the thought of having earplugs in my coat is not as ridiculous as it sounds. Sure enough, I had one earplug, and I ripped the son of a bitch in half and put half in each ear in hopes that I would not have to hear another word from this bleating son of a bitch, who at this point was telling the guy how he should rent a car and...guess what?...drive around and SEE the U.S., and was even giving pointers on nice highways to take. Meanwhile, this guy from India was probably wondering if he could get diplomatic immunity for killing this asshole, and I most certainly would have spoken in his defense.
I finally made it to the counter. The conversation continued behind me. I ripped out the earplugs and did my business. At which point the clerk's printer broke down, and that took more than 10 minutes to straighten out.
The final indignity, and you will probably not believe this, but it is true: the clerk made an error that caused my debit card to be charged $190 instead of $95. She told me that she could not undo it immediately, but that the charge would "probably" be taken off in a day or two, or five at the most.
Great. When it is, maybe I can send the extra money to PBS as thanks for all the entertainment.
posted by Fiddler at 11:27 PM
3 Comments:
I have never had a pen thrown at me, lol.
Seriously, these headphones are expensive but AWESOME, check them out in the store:
http://www.bose.com/controller?url=/shop_online/headphones/noise_cancelling_headphones/quietcomfort_3/index.jsp
Unlike the DMV, you CAN get your money back if you don't like them.
Methinks I detect a strange, new fascination with the derrieres of elephants. From whence does this come?
I once stood in line at a DMV directly behind two guys who were Iranian or Iraqi (I never figured that out.) One apparently was selling a car to the other. Or maybe it was one of the elephants you fantasize about. The car/pachyderm might have still been in Iran or Iraq. I don't think dollars were involved. Many phone calls were. After a half-hour of gesticulating (the clerk didn't understand much of what they said), they left with a sheaf of paperwork, no doubt destined to return.
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