Wayne Michael Reich

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Wayne Michael Reich

Motor Mouth. (A Tale of a few Twitties)

“No drug, not even alcohol, causes the fundamental ills of society. If we’re looking for the source of our troubles, we shouldn’t test people for drugs, we should test them for stupidity, ignorance, greed and love of power.” – P.J. O’Rourke

Hello Bitchiteers!

It is yet another gorgeous day out here in the high deserts of New Mexico. The sun is shining, the clouds look like cotton candy lazily hanging in the sky, and the local crows are just sitting around in a murder, contemplating just how their festive gatherings got such a bummer of a moniker. My guess? It’s all due to an envious group of socially-awkward sparrows, who decided to take things into their own wings, and enact their eternal revenge:

Speaking of “revenge”, it’s a topic that keeps popping up more often as of late, due to the fact I’m garnering quite the acidic reputation among the local interweb as being “that guy”, the definition of such, is that I’m an annoying Libtard / SoyBoy / Communist / Satanist / Know-it-all that dares to (GASP!!!) engage in political and cultural debate, while brazenly using irrefutable data to defend my position. I know… it’s most definitively a desperate power-move straight out of the playbook of a Machiavellian bastard, to be sure.

As I’ve previously written in other screeds, the sometimes end result of this apoplectic anger spewed forth by the most cravenly of conservatives, can range from keyboard insults, overly saturated with passive-aggressiveness and slurred between clenched fingers, to outright threats of physical violence, metaphorically deep-fried in the most bitter remnants of testosterone, and powdered with brazenness that can only come from hiding behind their mommy’s keyboard and a fake social media profile.

Entertainingly, while most of these threats come from people who think that they, and more pitifully, their effort, presents to myself, along with the digital world entire, as this:

In actuality however, anyone who reads their impotent insults and views their faux chest-thumping online posts with a functioning adult intellect, generally walks away thinking this:

Adding weight to this universally accepted assessment, is the knowledge that the majority of said “threats” are usually of an intellectual caliber akin to that of a toddler having a meltdown, and therefore, are fairly easy to mock, as I so jovially did here in my rejoinder to this twat of tenacity;Some people might read this declaration that adds credence to Danny’s family alleged adherence to perfecting their inbreeding, and sadly come to the logical conclusion that civility within our grand society is dead, but I know better. It’s more likely hiding in a bedroom closet, as if it were an oversexed teenager in an 80’s slasher movie, trying to make it to the vaunted and far-too-quickly-made sequel. But rest assured, the call IS coming from inside the house, and because a Conservative is the individual tasked with making it, you just know that it’s going to be one that’s collect.

To clarify as I’ve often had to do before, I have no issues with others having an opinion contrary to mine, as long as that opinion is backed up with credible evidence. Proven fact. Statistically sound data. In other words, an intellectual position of strength that doesn’t rely on the inclusion of angels, demons, the Bible, QAnon-derived conspiracy theories, bumper sticker ideology, or a rumor that was read off a website with the word “Patriot” to be found anywhere within its address or descriptive bio.

Especially when I find myself repeatedly dealing with a cravenly cross-section of persons who collectively, think that they possess this level of cunning villainous genius in regards to their ability to successfully debate the issues of the day;

Versus the one that they actually do:

Although when looking at it in retrospect, Megamind’s late-night claim at the Metro Man memorial during a moment of introspective career-inspired grief, that he never fully realized his evil plans regarding Robo-Sheep and the Illiteracy Beam, seems highly suspect now, given how many Americans still support a deposed Fanta Fascist, and the inherent difficulty most seemingly have differentiating between “your” and “you’re”, as well as “there”, “they’re”, and “their”, if I were to float so bold a theory: 
If you’ll allow me the opportunity, I think I’ll have to amend my comparison twixt the two, as in the end, Megamind is actually quite innovative for a blue-skinned alien refugee who’s best and only friend is an overly loyal space-fish wearing a robo-gorilla suit, and assert that the majority of intellectual voids I traverse in my day-to-day dealings are probably more akin to this guy, than anybody else:
Eggsactly right.

In addition, if you were to take into account the last three minutes that unfolded before I started writing that last joke, you’d perfectly understand exactly what I’m talking about here. For as I entered my Kingdom of The Round Table today, located within the Little Toad Creek Brewery and Distilling Company, (AKA: my office away from the office) my inner monologue of future pixelated thoughts to be constructed was interrupted by an obnoxiously uninformed voice from the table next to mine, housed in the physical countenance of what I can only charitably describe as a male free-range lummox.

Bearing a strong resemblance to Spiderman’s editorial nemesis,Jonah Jameson, undergoing undergoing a sandpaper glove colonoscopy, but without the benefit of anesthesia, this oxygen-wasting example of what happens when a Duplo block sheathed in purloined human skin forcibly mates with a dime-store knockoff of a tube of Just for Men, was having a “private” conversation about New Mexico’s newly energized initiative of permanently putting to bed as it were, the oft controversial issue regarding Marijuana legalization within our bucolic state:

And darn if he didn’t have an idea or two about it, factual information concerning the topic, be damned to Heck. I won’t speak for any of you, but I find myself all shades of enthralled when someone who clearly doesn’t what the f**k they’re talking about, feels the need to stand on a stage comprised of their empty personal-use boxes of Viagra and Vaseline, as they regal us, the chosen lucky few, with a stunningly unaware passion play showcasing just what depths of personal ignorance one can achieve.

But there we all were, a wholly uninterested captive audience for a man who had a stick shoved so far up his tight angry white-man ass, we could’ve used him as either a maypole or a cell-phone tower.   

You know. Depending on our needs at that time, and all that.

Normally, I wouldn’t find myself interjecting myself into what was a clearly defined private conversation, but this was so not that. No, this was one of those private conversations that its primary contributor wanted, nay, needed, everyone within earshot of his arrogant idiocy to hear in its entirety, even if all we, meaning me, wanted out of life at that moment, was to have some quiet time alone with our giant pretzel, as we, once again meaning I, rocked out to Audioslave. Is that too much to ask in a town where everybody normally doesn’t inflict themselves upon you?

Apparently it was, so after five of the longest minutes of my life listening to this human analog for a “Just Say No” after-school special, vomit inaccuracies in relation to the subject whose study notes for its test he most certainly cribbed from the 1936 anti-marijuana propaganda  film  “Reefer Madness”, I asked the simplest of questions: “If you don’t mind me asking, what’s the difference between getting behind the wheel altered on weed, versus doing so after a four-beer lunch?”

Two things at that point became perfectly crystalline clear. One, he indeed DID mind, and that, quite a bit, and two: I really should have counted the empty beer glasses that were laid out in front of his now decimated liquid lunch. Coincidentally, or maybe not, because the Universe has a f**ked-up sense of humor, that number just happened to be, you guessed it… four. I’m starting to think that I need to hire a team of advance scouts to survey the conversational landscape before I wander into the chat, even if I am armed to the teeth with actual evidence first,

That’s the beauty of snark-based hindsight. It’s always 20/20. And always far too late to ever be useful in the crucial short-term. Given this unintentional faux pas on my part, he could have responded to my query in a number of ways, the first clearly being a fact-based dissertation as to why he had formed the opinion he had, as we’d all like to think we would in kind, if such an inquiry had been asked of us:

Naturally, rather than take that far more reasonable path of intellectualism, he opted to go with his mid-priced beer and middle-aged paunch, versus using what I can only safely assume at this point, is a pickled cabbage pulling double duty as his brain. After I was nice enough to directly point out that he literally knew nothing about what he was talking about, the main focus of my retort centering on his insistence of inaccurately describing what being “baked” was like.

This, despite the willing admission that not only had he himself had never been high himself, he had also never dealt with anyone who was, either. Nevertheless, when this discrepancy of evidentiary experience was pointed out, he responded with a common vulgarity regarding my observation, because as is often the case for those whose entire vocabulary rhymes with “duck” and variations thereof, answering like a person is quite the mental marathon, even on the best of days… or so I’ve come to surmise.

It would have been fairly easy for me to ignore his crudity outright or even respond to it in kind, and I’m certain that in doing so, I would have been justified, but I’ve found it’s far more entertaining if not personally satisfying, to take the somewhat higher road of snarkiness instead. Note that I said, “somewhat”, as you’re never going to win any meritorious battle by being mistaken for Mr. Rogers incarnate. And while this approach may work for some, it has always been at best, a zero-sum endgame for me.

So, as I proceeded to set up my ever trusty IBM Thinkpad, I ever so kindly thanked him for reminding me exactly why I don’t really miss Phoenix that much, noting that his idiocy and intellectual immaturity was perfectly in line with what my former stomping ground has allowed itself to become. His response?

Well, let’s just say it wasn’t really that much of a retort, as much as it was a confirmation of his inability to think and blink at the same time: “Well, there’s a road out front, if you don’t like what I said, you can always leave, so there you go.”

To which I replied: And you could easily do some research and educate yourself, but sadly, that sort of information usually isn’t published in the form of a pop-up book, so there we are.”

And some of you have the nerve to dare suggest that I’m not a people person? Honestly, I have no indications as to where any of you got that idea. I don’t know how many of you have ever heard the maxim: “If looks could kill”, but at that moment, I don’t believe I’ve ever personally witnessed a better example of it in my life, as his eyes were throwing so many daggers my way, that I felt like I was starring in the reboot of “Who Framed Roger Rabbit”, as directed by Quentin Tarantino:

Fortunately for both of us, glaring was seemingly the only defense against witty quips that he possessed, which given my limited physical ability and the brittleness of that stick shoved sideways up his ass, helped keep the situation from boiling over into what would be classified eventually as middle-aged white guy hip-shattering violence.

In the end, all’s well that ends well, as his two long-suffering friends who were with him, quietly paid their tab, and split the scene, taking their boozy bloviating blowhard with them, much to the delight of myself, and anyone else who had been  privy to his earlier inanity.

As a rule, I generally don’t advocate that people do drugs recreationally, due to the damage I’ve seen them cause in those who have addictive personalities, but when it comes to this guy, not only would I suggest he invest in an ice-bong chock full of some prime Laughing Buddha, I’d go one step further and state outright that some of his spare income go towards purchasing a pair of top-shelf pliers to pull that giant bug out of his ass as well.

Speaking of things that definitively need to be extricated for the benefit of the individual, if not for society itself, ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Silver City DMV, which is referred to by the locals in my town as the place where you seek employment when being a door greeter at Walmart is just too intellectually challenging for you.

This administrative morass, whose motto should be “Gib alle Hoffnung auf, die du hier eintrittst”, or for those who don’t speak German, “Abandon all Hope, ye who enter here”, is literally the perfect embodiment of all that’s incompetent, overly bureaucratic, unprofessional, and dare I say it, wholly antithetical, in regards to how the rest of my small town generally operates.

Located in a nondescript building that from the outside, looks like a gift shop you would go out of your way to avoid at all costs, it currently houses a collection of office workers so woodenly dense, that termites gaze upon them with exactly the same amount of unbridled lust that I as a 14-year-old, used to exhibit every time I saw an Elle McPherson poster,

But seriously… can you blame me?

When I first moved to New Mexico, I had all sorts of new resident minutiae to deal with, ranging from setting up bank accounts, changing my mailing address, and finding new doctors for my ongoing medical care. All the stuff they never told us in High School that we’d get to do as fully functioning adults. And now we know why… because it’s just too much fun to be had by any one person, let me tell you.

Pointless paperwork? Love it! Bloated bureaucracy? Yes, please! The opportunity to engage with secretarial sociopaths? Good mythical God, it’s like Christmas came early, and I got everything on my list. And that includes the Barbie Home Taxidermy Playset. However, I still have to provide my own cat, so I guess there is a downside after all.

Nevertheless, when it comes to scaling the Pinnacle of All That Is Joyous, nothing on this f**ked-up amalgamation of space-dust, oxygen, silicon, aluminum, calcium, sodium, potassium, and magnesium, sitting atop a semi-solid nickel-iron alloy, comes even remotely close to interacting with the seemingly untrained and mismanaged staff at this Malebolge of living Beige, lifted straight out of Dante’s Inferno.

Like most government offices that serve the general public, the interior of this Bayer aspirin tablet turned workplace, which just so happens to be staffed by people with the personality of one, is strictly utilitarian, and boasts the standard compliment of informational posters, bored customers, and the standard compliment of countertop-to-ceiling bullet-resistant Plexiglas.

Before I was forced to spend a considerable amount of my free time as an adult in one of these soul-sucking cesspools, I always assumed that such security measures were set in place due to the sensitive personal information that agencies like this have access to, as well as the residual income they tend to generate as well. That opinion has changed, as I now feel that barrier is in place to protect the employees from the valid consequences they’d face if the customers they continually fail to treat with courteous professionalism, were ever granted the permission to lay their hands on them, albeit for the merest of moments.

To be clear, in no way, shape or form, am I openly suggesting any form of violence against any essentially useless governmental employee, irrespective of how personally satisfying it might be to strap one of these human doorstops into a Gulliver-sized trebuchet and aim at the Sun, but if such actions were indeed legal and morally ethical, I’d most likely be the guy in the parking lot selling the T-shirts and coffee mugs commemorating the blessed event and related holiday.

And where I once defended those at the DMV as being overworked and underappreciated, akin to this charmingly adorable, if somewhat physically leisurely, fellow;

I have to unabashedly admit, and with the same sense of openness, that after dealing with Silver City’s vacuous variant, my current take on those formerly noble working-class heroes is more in line with this particularly harsh, and as I see it, far more accurate assessment:

As to why I currently hold this opinion deep-fried in acidic contempt and powdered with the sweetest of sugared venom, the answer is quite simple; I hate, despise, loathe, resent, abhor, and utterly disdain, personal incompetence. Mix that in with just how much I enjoy being on the receiving end of an arrogant power-trip delivered by a person who will eventually be eaten by all the stray cats that they’ve hoarded over the years, and you’ll have a small glimpse into that which raw-rubs my patience as if it were wearing a barbed-wire codpiece.

It all started simply enough, with what should have been the most unassuming of tasks to accomplish in a place where much like the TV show Cheers, everyone knows your name., or at the very least, your reputation.

The goals for that day, was quite the laid-back ones- do some laundry, wash some dishes, mail some bills, gas up the car, grab lunch at one of the Mexican food joints, and when all that was put to bed, go online and renew my car tags for another two-year span. Easy enough, right? After all, we do live in a wondrous era where technology and access have been seamlessly conjoined in an effort to make all of life’s minor chores that much easier to cross off our to-do lists, where and when we choose.

I would like to take a moment if I may, to point out that it’s this kind of delusional optimism that not only gets this nation’s citizens as a whole, into so much trouble, but also makes some of us truly believe that our signature high school look of a British-flag t-shirt combined with a Members Only windbreaker, is still considered fashionable. And no, it does not matter that we graduated in 1987, as true style is in the heart, not the head.

Speaking of heads and the opinions contained within that are wholly erroneous, when I attempted to renew my registration online, I discovered that it had been suspended, with no prior notice, and more importantly, with no stated explanation as to why it had been put in limbo to begin with. A further concern arose far later, when it was revealed to me via a rude cubicle monkey, that said inactive status had been in play for close to two years, and I had no clue that such an action had even been undertaken.

Typically, when such a snafu as this one occurs, one would either call the DMV, or perhaps take a trip down to their local office to get the situation rectified, but thanks to the COVID-19 pandemic, the method of accessing all things routine has become increasingly problematic, if not infuriating, to the point where public meltdowns both justified and not, have become the norm, rather than the anomaly they once were:

(Your Karen or Kyle’s unfounded and privileged rage may differ. Ask your manager if dealing with over-entitled morons is good for either you, or your business.)
Because of the societal fears associated with COVID, along with the resultant retractions that have arisen from attempts to curtail its spread and impact, one’s interaction with the machinations of government have been relegated to either hit-and-miss online communication, or by setting up appointments that are weeks out in some cases, and the Silver City DMV is not immune from this new and maddening reality. In fact, if anything, they seem to be gleefully fueling the fires of their customers frustration, stoking by their own incompetence, for reasons as yet unknown to us, the common rabble.

This attitude of theirs was on full display, as I tried in vain over the course of two days to find out the details as to what happened, and exactly why I was never notified regarding it. Several phone calls to the only number listed for the DMV, resulted in a sizeable portion of my time going to waste, as said number was always either busy, or when it was not, rang excessively, never to be picked up.

And as far as this so-called customer service line having an option to leave a message in any form, as a means to eventually correct your issue at hand?

All kidding aside, I point out yet again, that it’s this kind of delusional optimism that gets this nation’s citizens into so much trouble, especially when they pair it with the ludicrous thought that customer service means you actually serve the customer. As if that concept still existed, since the implementation of the T-Mobile corporation call-center model.

By the way, did I happen to mention that despite every other business in my town (save for banks) being open to the public, albeit with enforced mask and social distance restrictions in place, the DMV’s lobby is locked up tighter than the underground vault where the watchable versions of the Highlander 2 and Star Wars prequel shooting scripts are stored?

So to recap, no online option to fix issues like mine, no ability to contact an actual human using the phone to do so as well, and no publicly accessible point person at their only location to talk to, despite their staff of blathering baboons being encased behind several layers of we-aint-willingly-getting-in-your-trebuchet-anytime-soon Plexi, all while being permitted to operate fully half-assed, where a mask mandate is still in full effect.

I have to tell you, next to the merged corporate nightmare that was formerly Sprint, I’ve never met a bunch of people more dedicated to not taking my money than these New Mexican morons. The late Minnesota politician and poet Eugene McCarthy, once blithely noted that; “The only thing that saves us from the bureaucracy is its inefficiency”, and man… was he ever spot-on regarding this certainty, or what?

None of these hurdles were going to stop me of course, from getting to the bottom of things, thanks to both my personal tenacity and anger management issues, so I piled into “Rita”, my adorably red Honda daily driver, and headed on down to Silver’s very own version of *TON 618, to kick some ass, steal some pens, take some names, and then… promptly forget them.*[TON 618 is a hyper-luminous and radio-loud quasar, possessing one of the most immense black holes found thus far, unless of course, you put it up against the Silver City DMV.]

Ignoring the “closed” signs in the main lobby window, I gazed in, and saw no less than three employees, just standing around behind their Plexi Playfort, displaying the kind of hustle I’ve only observed in retirees playing cribbage while asleep. So, I tapped on the lobby glass, hoping to get their attention, which they playfully refused to give, because at heart, these pencil-pushing pinheads are all about living in the moment. Not the one that’s actually required of course, just so we’re all clear.

You, as an actual person, might tend to think that after almost 30 seconds of hearing rhythmic tapping, that one of these hired-out-of-charity palookas would, at some definable point in time, acknowledge my presence, but that’s only because your brain is continually connected to your senses, and which obviously, have more than two brain cells dedicated to their utilization.

But to the devoted go the spoils, and eventually, after close to five minutes of my massaging the glass with a full complement of silver rings, a thought cut through the mental miasma of one of these human sweet-potato malingerers, that maybe, just maybe, she should get off her ass and inquire as to what the discount James Hetfield cosplayer in front of her workplace needed.

Now to be fair, while this was my overall attitude;
This was most definitely the vibe she was transmitting, from the second she opened the door, a clipboard death-clutched in her hands, glaring at me as if I had interrupted her, while she was in the middle of orally servicing a 2-liter bottle of lukewarm pickle brine:

And to set the tone, she did so while not wearing a mask, as she was literally, face to face with me. That’s right-the DMV’s point person dealing directly with the public, and that in very close proximity, within a town that still has a compulsory inside/outside mandate for all businesses, couldn’t be bothered to wear a mask, because… well, I’m sure she had a good reason as to why there wasn’t one around her neck, or in her hands.

Yep, gotta love an agency that shuts down its physical operation to allegedly protect its staff, but has zero issue about one of its own being in a position to possibly infect the general public at large. Additional kudos must be granted to this walking morass of mental midgetry, for giving me such an uninterrupted look at her face, because it allowed me to correctly identify her for the formal complaint I’m currently in the middle of filing with the state.

I won’t reveal her name here for legalities, rather than ethical concerns, but rest assured, everyone who lives in the boundaries of Silver City knows who she is, and for the reason mentioned in the meme above.alone

In my somewhat limited defense for what is about to be said, I try not to use what I personally consider sexist or vulgar terminology, even if the word “bitch” is key in the digital letterhead of these screeds, as I find such to be lazy at best, crude at worst. Exceptions are certainly made to be sure, typically to either cement an idea I’m trying to express, or punch up a joke, but in my day-to-day life, I try to work without stepping far too commonly into the realm of the “blue”, as it were.

However, when I run into someone who makes me immediately think that their collection of sex-toys purposefully short-circuit their own batteries in an act of desperate self-protection from a set of genitalia that most definitely has teeth in lieu of labia, I have no such compulsion to seek the high road… at all. Granted, this depiction may come off as being somewhat over the top, but I’d also put forth my belief that you could pour boiling lava down this woman’s throat, and she’d eventually start belching obsidian as an end result.

But let’s get to the real fun to be had, shall we? After taking a few minutes to inform Mistress Bitchypants why I was there, noting all of my previous failed attempts to make contact with a person that could actually do something, she retreats back into her Fortress of Sullentude, locking the door behind her as she does, because apparently, she took my above joking threat of stealing their pens seriously.  

As if would want knockoff generic Bics?

When she emerges, she snottily tells me that my registration was pulled due to a lapse in my insurance, which was only not true, but was also the second time that they had made the same error, and that, immediately within the initial month and a half after I had originally registered the car. In other words, it was their mistake. AGAIN. Meaning, that if I had been pulled over by the cops for even the most minor of reasons, I would have been subject to tickets, and depending on New Mexico law, possibly arrested or been at risk of my vehicle being seized, but … oops, I guess?

However, even though it was obviously their f**kup, it was up to me (naturally) to prove that they were wrong. Because, f**k me, that’s why. Therefore, I had to go see my insurance agent, who through gritted teeth, lets me in on the fact that this is such a common occurrence regarding this particular branch of the DMV, that they can literally set their office clocks by the consistency of their screwups.  

Speaking of which, I had to spend almost an hour getting the proof I needed to show that at no time, was I ever lapsed, or even late, and headed back to the place where professional competence seemingly goes to get curb-stomped to death by a pale of mentally corpulent turtles, as a matter of policy. When I find myself back at the Lair of Ineptitude, not only am I greeted by the same lovely individual I dealt with earlier, but this time around, there’s the joy of being harangued about my “rudeness” in relation to my jubilantly pointing out (with proof, remember) that they were the ones who couldn’t find their own asses without the aid of Google maps and a tour guide.

And when this was expounded upon, as is the way of my people, this cubicle cow wouldn’t even offer the weakest of apologies for their/her collective incompetence, because once again- f**k you, that’s why. Society, for whatever reason, be it valid or unsubstantiated, long ago credited women such as these with an utterly crass and unrefined slur, and yet, I am loath to utilize it within these pixelated points of discussion, but not for the reason you might think.

The direct explanation is that while the “C” word might be applicable on one level in regards to the descriptive of her personality and sense of professionalism, this woman lacks the depth, the warmth, and the desired practicality of use to meet the basic qualification of that which defines what one of those actually is.
As I stood there, waiting for an apology that never came, she attempts to blame my insurance company, claiming that they themselves, had called the state MVD, telling them that my insurance had lapsed, which was blasphemously false. But hey, when you’re an incompetent liar who’s been caught red-faced, just double down, and stick to your story, which you so transparently, fabricated out of hot air and bulls**t. .

Continue to do so, even if the person you f**ked over has empirical proof to the contrary. Because that always works.

Let me dissect what she in essence, failed to pass off as the Truth- my insurance company whom has never cancelled me at any point, called the DMV, told them I had no insurance, and in reaction, the DMV cancelled my car’s registration. An act of bureaucratic blundering, that for some as yet unknown reason, did not require the DMV to inform me of this at all. And yet despite this, my insurance company continuously sent me a monthly bill for a service they supposedly canceled, for a car that legally, did not exist.

Oh yes. Totally normal, if not entirely credible. Just make sure to completely ignore the previous statement from many in my small community about this very same issue being a shared problem regarding this agency. Obviously, all those pi**ed-off peasants should go pound sand. But there was more garbage to be spewed, courtesy of our Dominatrix of Density.

The second slice of power-trip pie that she served up, after faking offense at being called a liar to her vinegar-secreting face, involved a guy with a DUI conviction who was there attempting to acquire a legal ID card. Not a driver’s license. Nor was he endeavoring to get his auto registration reinstated, like I was. How did I know he had been prosecuted for a DUI, and that’s why his registration and license were revoked?

Well, it turns out that despite my initial assessment of Mistress Bitchypants as nothing more than an arrogantly incompetent cubicle cow, she also apparently has undertaken a sideline gig as my town’s unofficial PA system, dispensing people’s sensitive personal information to the wind as if her life depended on it. It didn’t, but maybe her fatuous Ego required it.

Who knows? However, thanks to her blatant indiscretion, I did now know a few things in regards to the person who up until a minute and a half prior, had blissfully, been an utter stranger, so there is that. For sake of clarification, I must admit his skull and neck tattoos, along with the obvious prison ink cascading down his arms, clued me in somewhat already that perhaps I was in the presence of possible rough trade, but that still doesn’t mean that the guy deserved to be treated as if he were less than human, by a pod-person who barely passes as one.

Trust me on this. When you see someone with dragons emblazoned on their shaved skull;

… ask some questions. You’ll be glad you did. Admit it- you’ve got a list of inquiries to make here, and you know it won’t be all shades of boring at the end., no matter what direction the tale may eventually turn out to take. At no point whatsoever, did this MVD mascot for morons, even think to ask or suggest, that either he come inside the fortified office to talk about his delicate and embarrassing situation, nor did she bother to lower her volume as she blathered his privileged information within my proximal presence.

Because you know, I was the one being ever so “rude”.

One down, two more to go. People, that is. As I mentioned earlier, my local DMV is only seeing people in the flesh on the basis of a pre-arranged appointment, which can only be set up via the Internet, as they can’t be bothered to pick up their phone. I’m not entirely sure what the elderly, the non-tech savvy, and those who don’t have web access are supposed to do, but I’m sure that the DMV has a resolution for that, given their stellar track record for efficiency thus far.

Taking that productivity into account, I’m also 100% certain that in no way, shape or form, that their measured and sedate resolution to these issues would ever dare be presented to the general public at large as this:
Nope. Can’t see them taking that approach at all. But then again, I still believe that one day, I’ll get to see a re-formed ABBA launch a world tour and a new album within my lifetime, so maybe I’m not exactly the best authority to ask about logical outcomes to solving what are essentially simple problems to begin with. Just saying.

Seriously, Universe? MAKE THIS HAPPEN:

Even if it’s for no other reason to satisfy my morbid curiosity regarding the latest advances in Kimono-based Rock-stage fashion. Which, when given the expansive range of technology and fabrics now available, is going to finally make this mid-70’s Dexedrine dream;
look as if they weren’t even trying to do anything but blend in with Elvis’s wallpaper.Getting back on track, I did note that appointments scheduled online are the only way to establish any form of face-to-face contact with a DMV drone, and as such, you’d think that since they themselves weren’t technically involved in that process, it’d be somewhat foolproof, if not aggravation free. At the very least, you might even optimistically assume that even they couldn’t f**k that up, am I right?

I’m not going to lie here… sometimes your positivity is absolutely adorable. Unfounded, ungrounded, unsubstantiated, and wholly speculative to be sire, but adorable, nonetheless.

it pains me to say this, but yes, despite the best efforts of Microsoft, Comcast, and the evil machinations of the downloaded soul of the late Stephen Hawking, they managed to gang-bang the metaphorical platypus on this one too. I have to hand it to these guys- it’s one thing to suck at your job in the world of the Real, but to be equally inept within the parameters of a world that exists only as electrical ether? Even I will have to begrudgingly admit, that’s some goddamn serious dedication to the craft of dumbf**ery.

What pray tell, am I referencing? As I waited the ten minutes it took to update my file, because apparently, the internet was running at *MVD speed that day, I witnessed no less than two people who were turned away, despite having scheduled appointments that day, and who concurrently, arrived with proof of such in hand. Not that the Clipboard Commandant gave a rat’s ass. *[This is similar to “Warp Speed” as described in the seminal 60’s TV show “Star Trek”, but involves standing around doing nothing, as one sits on their fat ass, endlessly repeating the following phrases: “I wish I could help.” “I understand.” And the classic “You’ll have to go online and…”]

In both cases, Mistress Mistake (without looking at her clipboard) churlishly announced that she had no record of either obligation, and therefore, they would have to go back online, and you guessed it… schedule yet another appointment. You know. Because the initial one worked out so well? Never mind the fact that they BOTH HAD PROOF of such, and in the case of one of these poor saps who was forced to take a half-day off work to honor his end of said responsibility, and because this Bitch of the West likes to remain on brand, no apology for the alleged snafu was to be had either.

I’ll give this secretarial slattern one thing. She is consistent, to say the very least.

See? I can give hard-earned credit when and where it’s due, even if that credit is for being the type of human being that most people want to see get eaten slowly by a shark. Or a prickle of flatulent porcupines. Either/or. I’m really not that picky when it comes to the metering out of overdue Justice anymore, so I’m pretty sure I’d be happy, no matter which way the metaphorical axe eventually falls::

But if I were forced to make a choice ala’ Hobson, I’d most likely lean in this direction, as the other path, while truly comically epic and visually fascinating, would take far too long to fit within my ever-increasing personal schedule. I do have a life to lead Bitchiteers, even if I would enjoy sitting ringside with a tall glass of cold milk and a platter of chilled Ding -Dongs.

Sometimes? Your career just has to come first. I do find however, that opinion to be somewhat off-base though, in relation to the walking “C” word currently inflicting herself upon the people of my fine town, leaving a snail-trail of aggravation and frustration in her wake, as she does so at this particular moment in time. In all honesty, she’s not wholly responsible for all the issues that are presently plaguing this poorly run bastion of bastardly incompetence, but she seems to be the one most alluded to when the topic arises, as it has most recently.

At best, she’s just the Face of the bureaucratic beast, because as the mythical God already knows, there’s no way in Hell, that she’s never going to be mistaken for the f**king Brains.

“An incompetent person in a responsible position may cause huge damage. Such a person should act less and think more.” – Eraldo Banovac

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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