Government Bulls***

I received a letter from the DMV: ”It’s time to come in and renew your driver’s license.” The last time I renewed it, I was able to renew online, but this time they wanted a new photo; hence, the personal invitation.

According to their website, the DMV opens at 8 AM. So I got up at 7 AM, bathed, shaved, dressed, got my paperwork together and drove to the DMV. I arrived about 8:10. There was already a crowd inside. An armed security guard directed me to the Information Desk. (“All who enter must pass the Information Desk,” he intoned gravely.) It was staffed by a young female who looked to be about 15 years old. “Your papers, please, old timer. And be respectful; I work for the Government and you don’t.”

I gave her my documents. She carefully inspected each document (current driver’s license, birth certificate, social security card, voter registration card, and the deed to my home) and returned them to me. Lest you think I’m making this up, the Government has its own reasons for requiring these documents. They were proof, of a sort, that I was a U.S. citizen, that I was who I claimed to be, and that I lived at the address I claimed to live at.

She handed me back my papers along with a clipboard and a pen. I had another form to fill out. As she handed me the clipboard, she looked me straight in the eye and said in a low voice, “See this computer right here on my desk? I can fuck with your tax returns whenever I want to. I’m with the Government.”

I looked back at her and said, “The joke’s on you. I don’t file tax returns.”

“I’m making a note of that,” she said as she began typing into her computer. I guess that retort will come back to bite me.

I turned and walked to the seating area. At first glance, there appeared to be enough people to sink a cruise ship, but I took one of the two remaining seats and began filling in the new form. They wanted a lot of personal information including what medications I might be taking and why. I guess HIPPA laws don’t apply to the Government.

I completed the clipboard document and waited. My ticket number was “I-102.” A computerized female voice called us up to the counter one by one. “R206, come to line 7.” “A002, come to line 4.” Et cetera, et cetera. After about an hour, they called my number, “I-102, come to line 8.” By then I felt like I had been playing Bingo From Hell for about, well, forever. I took an eye test and proved to their satisfaction that I could see stuff, answered some questions, showed them my paperwork, had my photo taken, and most importantly (to them) I swiped my credit card. After twenty minutes I was released on my own recognizance and allowed to return home.

On the way home I stopped at an auto garage and had my car inspection renewed. The inspection fee had increased by four dollars since the last inspection. That didn’t surprise me. It’s Big Brother’s hand in the car inspection racket. The Government can do anything they want. Don’t believe me? Ask them.