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I have had the unfortunate necessity of having to go to the DMV three times in the last three years.  Apparently, after the first time I went the DVM gods did not like the article that I wrote afterward (read it here) so they punished me by making me go again last year.  Of course, moving to California might have had something to do with it too.  Then I wrote another article about that DMV experience, which I will always treasure, and again the gods made me return.  But, again, I moved back to Las Vegas.  I’m getting a recurring theme here that moving forces you to go to the DMV, along with those gods, or more likely, devils.   The lesson from that theme is DON’T MOVE!

I finally made the time to go yesterday.  I would have put it off longer but I was already fined for not doing it within thirty days of moving back to Nevada.  I guess they consider the DMV their welcoming party.  Let’s say that the lady behind the information booth (hereafter referred to as the Nazi Bitch) was not that welcoming.  I was next in line and my attention must have wandered for a millisecond and when I didn’t immediately jump up to her booth to praise her she started flailing her Nazi Bitch arms to get my attention.  When I did get there she didn’t greet me courteously, unless DMV courteousness is a snarl.  Luckily, I was able to escape with only my feelings hurt.  I’ve seen worse.

The Nazi Bitch gave me a number which meant I had to wait for a very long time.  I’m pretty sure she found a way to give me a number later than would have been my normal turn.  It’s a game the Nazi Bitches play against each other to see who can screw over the most people.

I had to figure out something to do to pass the time since I didn’t have the foresight to bring something to read.  I noticed a lot of people were looking at their cell phones.  That didn’t work out that well for me since I neither text or play games on my phone,  so staring at the numbers got a little boring.

I decide to people watch.  I quickly came to the conclusion that white socks and sandals is a fashion statement no one should make.  My next conclusion was that too many people go to the snack bar, not necessarily while at the DMV, just in general.

Not being a very deep thinker, those were my only conclusions before my number came up.  What an adrenaline high when I saw my number flashing.  I ran to my designated booth and while it wasn’t the same Nazi Bitch there, this lady also qualified as a Nazi Bitch.  Apparently, they put it on their resume when they apply for the job.

She asked me if I wanted to use the picture from my California driver’s license or get a new picture.  I opted for using the old picture.  She looked at the picture and said , “Really?”  She looked at it again and shrugged.  I think she thought I didn’t have much to work with anyway, so why bother.

I guess she wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible because she didn’t even make me do the eye test.  Darn it, I had spent a lot of time practicing mumbling the letters so she couldn’t hear me when she asked me to read a line so I could buy more time to squint and get the correct answer.  Another DMV disappointment.

All in all, it wasn’t my worst DMV experience.  I’ve had worse, just read my previous articles.  If some of the employees would take some friendly pills it wouldn’t have been bad at all.  But I did make one decision while I was there.  I’m not going to move again for a very long time.

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Last April I had to go to the DMV to get my driver’s license renewed.  I wrote an article for darnfunnyonline.com at the time, chronically that nightmare.  In January I moved to California and once again I had to go to the DMV, this time in California.  The DMV is never fun but California’s DMV makes Nevada’s look like Paradise.  Besides, no one should have to go to the DMV more than once in less than a year. That should be classified as cruel and unusual punishment.

My day started off trying to find a parking space in a lot that is about one quarter of the size it should be.  Luckily, the parking space fairy was on my side that day because I only had to cruise around for about five minutes before I was able to beat another driver to a spot.  He was a good sport about it though because he gave me a hearty wave as he drove away.  Although, I think he must have hurt his hand earlier because his middle finger was sticking out as he waved.  I felt sorry for him and gave a nice wave back.

Next, I had to deal with an unusual (euphemism for psycho) security guard.  I wasn’t sure I was at the right place so I walked over to his side and asked him if I was.  He stared straight ahead and answered in a strange psycho-like monotone voice, “Do you think you’re in the right place?”

I looked around to see if he was talking to someone other than me.  Satisfied there was no one else (he actually could have been talking to an invisible guy now that I think of it) I said, “I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking you.”

Then he said curtly, “Ask one of them,” pointing to other customers.

Exasperated I replied, “They don’t work here they are customers like me.”

Then as he slowly turned his head and glared at me (at least he finally looked at me) I knew this was a good time to leave.  After all, he had a gun.  So I slowly backed away until I felt it was safe to run, which I did.

After standing in several more lines I finally got to the point where they took my picture for my driver’s license.  When I got to see the picture I was positive I had been trapped in a time warp and I was now 80 years old.  I don’t know how they do it but I’m pretty sure they have a way of gathering up all of the wrinkles, age spots and other disfiguring marks on a face that have been photos shopped out of pictures and put them into the DMV camera that then go onto the driver’s license pictures.

Next, much to my surprise I had to take a written driver’s test.  They don’t make new people to Nevada do that.  There the driving laws are whatever you can get away with.  Anyway, after answering questions like, “If there is a double yellow line in the middle of the road and orange cones on the side of the road and the traffic light just turned red how much to you have to pay to bribe the cop to not give you a speeding ticket.”  I passed the test.  You are allowed to miss 6 questions and that’s what I did so grading on a curve I had a perfect score.

Finally, I had only one more obstacle before I could finish my day in hell.  I had to get my car a smog test.  Not surprisingly, it costs twice as much for a smog test in California than it does in Nevada.  That’s a concept I’m getting used to quickly.

At last I was done.  I’m guessing this whole ordeal was some weird sort of initiation test to see if they’ll let me stay in California.  I apparently passed because they let me have a license.  Now I just have to find out how much to bribe the cop because I missed that question on the test.

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I was already having a tough week and then it was capped off with a near death experience, or at least one that made me almost want to kill myself – going to the DMV to get my license renewed.

Now I really have an understanding of why people always look so bad on their driver’s license pictures after having to endure the torture chamber that is the DMV.

First, I had to wait in a line just to get in the building which meant standing in the hot Las Vegas sun.  That would account for the radiating glow on my face in the picture.  Or maybe I should, more accurately, call it a radiation glow from the sun.

What made the wait in the line even more intimidating was the fact that I saw people going into the building, since the line did move, even if at a snail’s pace, but I hardly saw anyone coming out.  It made me wonder what was happening in there.  I figured there was some kind of government conspiracy going on where they drug and hypnotize you and tell you won’t remember this.  Then they tell you taxes are good, Obamacare is good, Cap and trade is good.  Hmm…now that I think of it, I don’t remember any of that happening so maybe it was just the drugs and hypnosis working.  But, luckily, if that did happen it didn’t work well because I think those ideas are more stupid than ever…Again, hmm…very interesting.

Once you do get into the building you are herded like cattle to numerous lines and made to fill out various forms in triplicate, etc.  I’m not sure where the drugs and hypnotism came in but that just validates the theory because they tell you won’t remember.

Up until a few days before I went they were making you show your birth certificate and two forms of ID that show your residence so the federal government can better keep track of you.  Luckily that is not now being required, at least for the time being.  I asked a lady there why they stopped doing that.  She told me in a very cryptic voice, “We decided we don’t need it.  We already know how to find you.”

After my stomach stopped churning from that comment I got to sit and wait, which was only a slight improvement from standing and waiting.  Fortunately, I had the foresight to pack a lunch and bring a pillow.  They didn’t really mind that because it kept me from complaining but what they frowned upon was when I wanted to change into a fresh set of clothing after my nap.  That brought a visit from the security guards.

The ultimate insult is at the end of this entire day–killing incident is that you have to pay them to get your license and complete the torture.  That’s like changing your baby’s diapers and you know they are just going to crap in them again anyway.  Okay, not the best analogy, but the crap part rings true here.

I must say it was quite a relief to know I won’t have to go back there for another eight years, at which time I will need to get a new picture taken for my license.  That is unless they tell me to come back in 4 years because the drugs and hypnotism have worn off too soon.  Not that I remember it…hmm.

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