One of my head lights went out the other day when I was driving home from work and with my luck, a cop pulled me over and now I need to go to inspection. I think a trip to the DMV is considered torture in some cultures.
This past week I had to take my car in for inspection. Not only did I get to take time out of my weekend, I sat in long lines and had to deal with the lovely people at the DMV. Don’t worry, the fun keeps coming. First, I should probably give you the setting. It was a humid summer day. The type of day when breathing is enough exercise to make you sweat bullets. The only way to escape the heat would be to float in a pool and last time I checked the DMV was the farthest thing from Typhoon Lagoon.
Reluctantly, I got in my car, bit the bullet, and headed towards hell. I cranked my air on full blast, put on some tunes, and actually started to think that it might not be so bad. I spoke too soon. I couldn’t even pull into the parking lot because the line was so long; cars protruding into the street. I rolled down my window and peered down the seemingly endless line of vehicles. I was looking at over an hour wait. My only salvation was the big gulp sitting next to me in my cup holder. I know I needed to stay hydrated, but in the midst of my anger I forgot about my lack of bathroom access. It probably wasn’t a good idea to suck down 72 ounces of Blueberry Blast icy. Then, as I’m waiting, I see some cars try and cut the line. I thought I was going to lose it. Did they think they could cruise right in and skip the wait? Over my dead body. As one car tried to merge in front of me, I stuck like glue to the bumper in front of me, glaring into the eyes of the driver. He backed off. No one was skipping this line. So in addition to the scorching heat, blaring bass from nearby cars, and my pulsating bladder dancing with every bass line, I now needed to guard my spot in line. Is this really my life?
After 1 hour, 23 minutes, and 17 seconds I made it to the front of the line. I had finally made it, face to face with the devil himself, who happened to be a short, portly man donning a nametag that said Larry. “Listen Larry, you’re not fooling me. I know Larry is short for Lucifer,” I thought to myself. The combination of icy and pure rage filtered through my veins. I watched him as he inspected my car. Silently letting my mind wonder about how easily I could “off him,” toss him in the trunk, and never have to deal with the DMV ever again. I could then begin the renegade life of an outlaw, doing as I pleased, not conforming to societal constraints… “Okay, your good to go,” Larry said. I shook my head as I snapped out of my homicidal hallucination. I smiled, thanked him, and pulled out of the garage. Well, that wasn’t so bad.