Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free,alt.slack
Subject: Paper Rage
From: nospamum@radix.net (MegaLiz)
Date: Fri, 14 Nov 1997 02:28:15 GMT
In the paper work pecking order, there are few that really have any
rank. How could I forget this? I used to file papers every day when I
had a "job." The efficient filing job always considers A) the
likelihood that you'll need the thing again before July 1998 and B)
the ability of the paper in question to paralyse you. Hence,
passports, driver's licenses and the like are at the pinnacle of
paperhood along with anything you might be expected to produce when a
man in an ugly hat says, "Let me see your papers, please." Tax returns
are much further down in the hierarchy, because, BOB willing, you'll
never have some gum-smacking IRS agent named Latrina asking for THEM.
The thing I always forget to factor into the filing matrix is C) the
inconvenience of replacing the paper. By THIS standard the Motor
Vehicle Administration rules while catalogs for nifty toys are dead
last.
Due to my cunning business sense, even though we decided to sell our
Jeep in June, I cleverly waited until we had paid six more months of
insurance and about $800 in repairs before proceeding with the actual
sale. At this point I figure that I'm going to have to pull almost
$1000 of sales charm outta my ass to break even. No problem. I still
have the membership card, which is of course, the most important bit
of paper of ALL. Besides, EVERYBODY wants a Jeep in the winter, even
me, come to think of it.
Sniff.
Today I started the unhappy process of selling my favorite machine for
real. The first objective was to find the title. I can't find the
fucking title. All the logical and illogical places were scoured, and
all the OTHER things I found just further infuriated me. I found my
Social Security card, which these days ranks right up there with
Papers that Paralyse, because you can't get hired without one. Where
did I find it? In a folder labeled "Don't Even Think About Fucking
Losing Me?" No no. I found it tucked in an innocuous looking colored
folder alongside my Imported Furniture Membership Card, which was
supposed to grant me free teak oil for life. Now THAT's an important
slice of dead tree, for you. Right. The bastards reneged on that offer
YEARS ago. Fucking Scandinavians.
Having run out of even illogical places to look, and yes, I did paw
through my underwear drawer, I decided to go on with the assumption
that the title was lost to the ages. I gulped another cup of coffee
and called the MVA. Eventually Miss Horrenda Jones accepted my call.
Her computer died while I spelled my name, but she gamely restarted it
and hunted for my information. We chuckled hollowly over the fact that
I seemed to have been erased from THE SYSTEM. Ha ha ha. Computers are
so damned cute. Finally Horrenda leveled with me, if I couldn't find
my title, I could get a duplicate from the closest office in four to
six weeks OR I could get one the same day if I went to GLEN BURNIE.
Silence on the line. She reassured me that that was the only way.
For those of you who haven't experienced a visit to Glen Burnie and
it's proud landmark that is the Central MVA, let me elaborate. Going
to Glen Burnie is like visiting Procrastinator's Purgatory. The place
is like an immense grade school dungeon, especially the floors ABOVE
ground. You can get lost in there and if you do, you will weep with
fear, just like you did when you lost Mommy in the big bad dime store.
You might imagine that the echoing screams of bad drivers have caused
the paint to peel to that undercoat of institutional green, or you
might think that you've seen that same hollow-looking bald man pass by
several times, muttering to himself. That's the worst part, other than
the SMELL: the haunting by of all the other angry retards who forgot
to "fill out the proper form" or "attend re-education sessions" or
"pay the maximum fine" on time.
The INSULT is that I'm going to have to pay $20 when I go there. I
think I'll just keep looking in my underwear.
-------------------------------------------------------------
* "Okay! Okay! I'll NEVAH EVAH do it AGAIN!" - The Spunky
alt.foot.fat-free: where you can collect all six Moment Toes
From barbara@.bookpro.com Thu Nov 13 18:24:35 1997
Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free,alt.slack
Subject: Re: Paper Rage
From: barbara@.bookpro.com
Date: Fri, 14 Nov 1997 02:24:35 GMT
nospamum@radix.net (MegaLiz) wrote:
<snip>
>Finally Horrenda leveled with me, if I couldn't find
>my title, I could get a duplicate from the closest office in four to
>six weeks OR I could get one the same day if I went to GLEN BURNIE.
>Silence on the line. She reassured me that that was the only way.
Noooo, noooo, say it ain't so. Not GLEN BURNIE!
>For those of you who haven't experienced a visit to Glen Burnie and
>it's proud landmark that is the Central MVA, let me elaborate. Going
>to Glen Burnie is like visiting Procrastinator's Purgatory. The place
>is like an immense grade school dungeon, especially the floors ABOVE
>ground. You can get lost in there and if you do, you will weep with
>fear, just like you did when you lost Mommy in the big bad dime store.
>You might imagine that the echoing screams of bad drivers have caused
>the paint to peel to that undercoat of institutional green, or you
>might think that you've seen that same hollow-looking bald man pass by
>several times, muttering to himself. That's the worst part, other than
>the SMELL: the haunting by of all the other angry retards who forgot
>to "fill out the proper form" or "attend re-education sessions" or
>"pay the maximum fine" on time.
Stop, stop, stop!!! You're bringing back all the fear, the horror,
the rows and rows and rows of people waiting and waiting for
who-knows-what, the many, many lines. And you always get in the wrong
one (since they don't bother to make it clear which line is for what),
which you don't find out until you're at the counter, facing the most
obdurately sullen state motor vehicle type employees this side of
Boston.
The only thing that made Boston possibly worse was that (in 1979, at
least) one had to go to one MVA office to apply to take the driver's
license test, another one several blocks away to take the damn test,
and (if I recall correctly) back to the first office several days
later to actually get the license. The only good thing was that they
were in the process of rewriting the book of Massachusetts driving
laws (if such laws actually exist), so there was no book you could use
for studying for the test, so they gave you a two-page sheet of
possible questions that would be on the test. Ace city.
>The INSULT is that I'm going to have to pay $20 when I go there. I
>think I'll just keep looking in my underwear.
Don't forget to take cash, or when you get to the front of the right
line, finally, at Glen Burnie, you'll be SOL.
BW