Passing a civil service test doesn’t mean you’re in Mensa

Going to the DMV is supposed to be a production. I get that. But what I don’t understand is how I’ve been there FIVE times and my car still isn’t registered in D.C. It’s not registered anywhere — my Virginia tags have expired and THAT’s adding a whole ‘nother layer of unparalleled rapture.

I hate how these gubmint employees treat you like shit on a shoe, when you know in your heart and mind that your IQ would dwarf theirs on any other given day. Just not the day that you need their disdain-filled help. Bastiges.

Before I rant at length, I want to introduce you to a spoof site of the D.C. DMV. Dig it:

As of February 10, 1890 all residents from Virginia must bring additional documents in order to obtain a DC drivers license or identification card.

To obtain a DC driver’s license, you will need three (4) items from the primary list, eight (8) items from the secondary list, and provide ten (10) proofs of current residence in DC.

Those items can include: Recent Whole Foods receipt, Recent O Street Giant receipt, Recent DC Police report, Recent GW Hospital statement and/or Sad, dull, and uninspired facial expressions.

While I’m at it, I could also use the Anti-Dubya plate. That is, assuming I can ever GET the fucking car registered!

So in my own “non-spoof but god it sure seems like it” world, I got the car inspected, which only took two tries to pass. But inspection don’t get you nowhere until you get the lienholder to say it’s OK to register the car somewhere else. And again, if it isn’t registered anywhere (like mine), you might as well throw a dishcloth on your head and carry a bomb under it — you’re pretty much classified as a less-wanted al-Qaida terrorist. More like unwanted, but I digress.

When I lived in Virginia, all that shit was taken care of for me. The only inconvenience I encountered was having to drive my ass out to Fairfax City for the honor of paying $250 in personal property taxes for the privilege of driving that vehicle in the state.

But anyway, D.C. I got my driver’s license, though, which BLOWS because I was in my third outfit of the day and had switched into a push-up bra, and for nothing. The girl didn’t tell me when she was going to take the photo. I saw the flash and it startled me, so I look like someone shoved a kazoo up my ass and whistled “Dixie” for me. I’m so aggravated.

Did I mention there’s only one Northwest location that offers temporary tags (which I didn’t get because, you know, this is me we’re talking about) and that everybody and their freaking brother was there? I knew when I got to the DMV and my customer number was the number of pounds I lug around that I was in trouble; it’s like when I talk about someone I hate with every fiber of my being that he suddenly flares up like a bad case of acid reflux.

And speaking of that (everything eventually comes full-circle in my life. hooray) whazzup with you bitches making me put my weight on this thing? GAWD Almighty, if I weren’t already planning to cut this thing up thanks to the worst photo ever taken of me, now I have to set it on fire too?

And confidential to DMV employees (with one exception, as you were a treasure. The other 17 of you can suck it), YOU PASSED A CIVIL-SERVICE EXAM, NOT PASSAGE INTO THE HEAVENLY KINGDOM.

Sweet motherlovin’ Jesus. I got the “c u next tuesday” with the personality of a broken lamp post taking my driver’s info. Not only did I have to provide — I shit you not — FIVE forms of identification (I was waiting to be held down for a freaking Pap smear next. sheesh!), but I could see the screen where SHE TYPED SHIT IN WRONG!

My date of birth was wrong, and I said as much. Not mean — I just said in my nicest voice that I’d appreciate if she could make a correction to the day. She huffed at me and kept going. Then she typed in the wrong apartment number for me. At which point I said, “I’d like it to read X and while you’re at it, it’s important that my birth date be corrected.”

Because, you know, in the nation’s CAPITAL we would like to get that kind of shit straight once in awhile, mmmkay?

The info is all right, thank god. Now, anyway. I think Miss Va-Jay-Jay relished giving me my hideous ID after I’d dared to request having the fucking thing accurately reflect who I am. But yeah, an afternoon at the DMV is enough to make even the most intelligent person wonder how they made it this far in life.

And while I would never endorse that spoof site (comes across as a little too racist for my tastes, although the bits about a Dupont Circle DMV location and the gay licensing was pretty funny), it probably gave me more information than the official Web site did before I walked in there on numerous occasions and made an ass out of myself. And I still have one more trip to make!

2 Responses to Passing a civil service test doesn’t mean you’re in Mensa

  1. Sabre :

    “I saw the flash and it startled me, so I look like someone shoved a kazoo up my ass and whistled “Dixie” for me.”

    That made me laugh so damn hard I spit on my keyboard. This is a must see photo!

  2. trouble :

    Ah, the DMV. I now feel guilty about bitching because a) They’re halfway competent here (and human, too) and b) our car taxes are only $40 a year here. And no car inspection. Which, of course, means that the guy next to you may have no brakes, but I don’t have to worry about my emissions. Until we all die of smog poisoning or something, that is.

    Somehow, though, my picture came out with me looking like a zombie. Really, truly, and no exaggeration, either. I was saying that the other day to friends and they thought I was drama queening it up, as always, but when they saw the picture, all they could say was, “damn…that’s really bad.”

    I may have to “lose” it. Again.