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