Secretary Of Wait

I had the distinct displeasure of spending a portion of my day at the Secretary of State's Office trying to renew my license plates. As you know, I love to drive, despite the proliferation of stupid drivers, and being pulled over by "The Man" for expired plates puts a crimp on my cruising.

I thought this would be an easy adventure. All I needed to do was bring a check, hand it to one of the cheery State workers and leave with two stickers that I would slap on my plates, making me street legal for another year. I arrived to find out that I wasn't the only motorist who had this plan. Being the end of the month, my plates were set to expire at midnight. Sure, Big Brother had sent me a notice a couple months ago, even giving me the option of renewing on line or by phone (for a small "convenience charge"), but I'm a busy guy. I also never look at the mail. I leave that to "Wife". That way if someone sends me anything registered, I can deny any knowledge of it. I need to keep some distance between myself and those who seek to destroy me.

Apparently only the elderly and the unattractive choose to forgo paying a "convenience charge" and decide instead to show up at a Secretary of State facility. You can decide which demographic you want to place me in. I was thrown into the middle of one of the saddest groups of people I had even had the misfortune to be a part of. We were all in the same boat. Our options were limited to standing in line, or risking a ticket tomorrow when we went motoring. Despite fancying myself a "man of the people", I really hate being a man among the people.

The civil servants who man the facility were neither civil, nor big on service. The troll-like man who was the gate keeper couldn't get rid of people fast enough. He never looked up, perhaps because his head was the size of an SUV tire and weighed down his neck. He just slurred ambiguous directions and handed out numbers. It's good to see that the State is hiring people who lost their jobs at the carnival ticket booth. The she-beasts who controlled the stickers were drunk with power. They shouted out numbers and corralled the hopeless into a zombie-esque cue. They patrolled the line with vicious fury, demanding our papers like demented border guards. I felt like one of the huddled masses being processed through Ellis island. After an hour of this madness, I numbly handed my documents to the final bureaucrat and received my stickers.

I've learned my lesson. I will give in to the extortion of the State and pay for the "convenience" of never having to hobnob with my frugal, procrastinating friends again. By next year I want to be one of the beautiful people who has a sticker magically appear on their car without the hassle of paper work. Yeah right. Check back with me next year. As for today, I'm cruising on the straight and narrow, giving the "Man" one less reason to harsh my buzz. Later...Brian