Unpleasant Fuckery Was Afoot at Our Local DMV
Explaining the Hell That is the Department of Motor Vehicles
I woke up this morning uncharacteristically early. Well, early for a full-time writer who stays up past midnight routinely. I often am not awake before my Bride leaves for work. Sadly, this morning was different.
I say sadly because of the events that unfolded this morning. Because we live in a desert surrounded by foothills, we get uncharacteristically bullshit hot summers. We had a stretch of 10 days in a row not over 100 degrees last month. It got up to 108.
The band Garbage had it right: I’m only happy when it rains.
But hey, we don’t have a global warming crisis, right? My little dog Libby would disagree. She notices a lack of car rides and buh-bye outings during the summer months. It makes her an even moodier little prick than her chihuahua DNA normally predisposes her to.
Today was cooler, so I decided it would be nice to take her on a quick 2-mile car ride to Winco. I needed a few things from the grocery store and with the temperatures being in the low 60s, I could safely bring her with me. She just about shit a chicken when I said those magic words.
“You wanna go BUH-BYE?”
Yap Yap City. I took that as a “yes.” She skidded on our hardwood floors as I tried to put her leash on for the walk to my truck. She bounced off the step-up bar trying to jump in. Take it easy, Mooch. You’re 10 1/2 inches tall and 12 1/2 years old. Let Daddy help you.
She jumped onto the center console, riding it like a surfboard as she does. There’s nothing she likes better than feeling tall. And barking at anything that moves. She’s small and mean, like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas.
But she’s a total sweetheart toward the people she loves. This is her look of gratitude:
After doing my shopping, I walked back to the truck to load up the groceries. That’s when I noticed it:
My registration tags expire in less than two weeks. Should have renewed them for two years instead of one, you cheap fuck.
I realized that we were close to our DMV. I checked my phone and it read 8:05 AM. It had just opened for business, and nobody would be there right when it opened.
“Mooch! We’re going to make another stop! Can I trust you with the groceries, Ma’am?”
Her face read, “Yes”, but her active sniffer told me she was already noticing the whole cooked deli chicken I’d bought. Ok, perhaps that bag would have to go in the bed of my truck. She didn’t earn her nickname of “Mooch” for nothing.
As I pulled up to the strip mall where our DMV office is located, I noticed how crowded the parking lot was. Shit. Did other folks have the same brilliant idea that I had?
I guess I’m not as brilliant as I thought. Dumbass.
I figured Libby would be ok in the truck, as long as I could get through the line in a shorter amount of time. After grabbing my ticket and seeing a room full of people, I started to get nervous. I went outside and cracked the windows for Mooch
I gave her some water, too. No dehydrated PomChis on my watch. She looked confused when I explained that a bunch of other fuckwits were in line ahead of us already. Yet she was happy in the still-cool pickup cab.
I left her there and took a seat like the second-stringer I was inside the DMV. Damn it, this never happens to the starters. I can’t imagine LeBron having to sit on the bench for half the game. Perhaps I should take a flop like he does. Cut the line out of sympathy.
Negatori. Rules are rules. I’ll just sit here and try not to make contact with the humanoids. What a collection of interesting specimens. Don’t even get me started.
A large, elderly fella wearing overalls and a red MAGA hat contributed to my piss-poor attitude immediately. Old MacDonald was watching a Trump campaign rally video on his phone. He was nodding his head and saying, “Damn right…” and “Hell yes…” every time Drumpf said something ignorant and bigoted.
Please don’t talk to me, please don’t talk to me…
He elbowed me and said, “That’s what we need, LEADERSHIP back in the White House!”
Yeah. And if he loses the election, just take it by force.
I avoided eye contact and said, “No Hablo Ingles, Brother.”
He eyeballed me suspiciously and moved a few seats down. I could tell he was trying to reconcile the idea of a fair-complected man with blue eyes speaking Spanish to him. He started focusing intently on his phone.
Probably looking up the contact info for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. Que lastima!
After sitting for 20 minutes and checking the temperature on my phone, I was getting concernicus. I could see Mooch’s ears in front of the window. She appeared to be pacing back and forth. I was distracted by two of five little blonde kids with a younger-looking woman, waiting to renew her driver’s license.
Mormons. Fantastic. Praise be.
The little boy came up to me and said, “I’m Ed Sheeran, and my sister is Taylor Swift.”
Christ. And I’m Charlie Manson. Now bugger off.
I smiled at him because I’m not a lunatic in reality. They bounced around my chair singing and dancing while my headache grew by the minute. They finished and stared at me, expecting a tip or a recording contract. I wasn’t in the mood for either.
But I clapped for them. In my mind, I had a whole critique for them, which I could have easily delivered in Simon Scowell’s British accent. But again, I’m not a monster, I just play one on Medium. Molly Mormon scooped them up to the counter when their number was called, and I took this opportunity to check on Mooch.
It was warming up. I started to panic. I knew I couldn’t pass her off as a service dog. A. Because that would be wrong and I didn’t want to be one of those douche canoes who fake having a service dog and B. She behaves horribly around people and nobody would believe that she’s a trained service animal.
I thought quickly and got into one of our grocery bags. Ah-ha! Tinfoil. Problem solved.
I wrapped her up like a gas station breakfast burrito and took her inside. I brought a pocketful of dog treats in case she got pissy. We sat down, unnoticed by the two employees who were busy helping all of the whiny, unprepared people in line.
Dick-holes.
Fortunately, Mooch passed out after a belly-full of dog treats and I held her close to me to avoid being seen. After what seemed like a lifetime, I finally heard it: “C-204”.
Thank-the-fuck-Christ.
As I approached the counter help with my dog-rito strategically turned away from the counter help, I produced my ID and soon-to-be expired registration. The middle-aged man wearing glasses and a 9-year-old boy-styled bowl haircut eyed us suspiciously. If he hadn’t given up on his job, fashion sense, and life in general long ago, we’d have been had.
Fortunately, Mooch is in her golden years and snoozed peacefully in her tinfoil cocoon while I quickly paid for the new registration. Prince Valiant handed me back my driver’s license and hit the button to print out the new registration.
The sound of the printer jolted Mooch awake. She hit those yappy high notes that only a Chihuahua and Mariah Carey can, struggling to get out of her thin, full metal jacket.
Tough titties, Libberoni. I wrapped that shit tight. You’ve been Houdini’-ed. My mama didn’t raise no fool.
“SIR! YOU CANNOT BRING A DOG INTO THE DMV!” Haircut yelled at me.
“Oh, this is my service dog,” I answered, turning into the lying douche canoe I so hoped I wasn’t, but obviously was.
Prince V wasn’t having it. “Oh yeah? Then where is its service animal vest?” he sneered at me.
Mean bastard. I hoped he didn’t have pets of his own at home.
“Wait, did I say “service dog?” I meant, my service breakfast burrito. Gotta run, thanks for the new registration!” I yelled over my shoulder, before he could call security or the police.
Thankfully, I chose the two-year option this time. I’d have taken a decade, if that was possible. Fuck the DMV, for real. At least Mooch had one hell of an adventure this time.
© 2024 Jason Provencio. All rights reserved.
Its official.. the award for best use of aluminum foil is yours. Thank you for making me laugh - I needed this. 🙌🙌
Wish I was your neighbor. I’d keep your wine glass full. 😂😂😂