I watched Dr. Strangelove today. It was pretty good. I like Stanley Kubrik's use of music; music seems to be the most moving part of a movie, so when it's sort of off it makes it quite appropriate.
Well, some things have been happening that aren't all that entertaining but still equate to more than the nothings of yesteryear. As you can probably tell, my blog writing has suffered a bit as a result of me recent activities. And by "activities" I mean heroine. I jest, I jest. While on heroine. Bleh. I've bee laying the hard drug references on pretty thick recently, might be time to go back to the hard work of actually making up stuff. Woohoo!
Anyway, I guess the only thing worthy of note of late is my trip to the DMV (Department of Motor Vehicles for the acronomically impaired). For those who don't know, me and the DMV have a bit of history. We dated when I was an angry teenager looking to get back at the society that had ostracized me for my charming good looks and the magnificent future that was sure to plague me for the rest of my unnatural existence. I'd call, the DMV would give me the run around, I'd drop by, it'd make me wait 2 or three hours til we could finally get down to business, and then we wouldn't talk for months until we had to repeat the entire dance.
Well, I needed a favor. I wasn't proud of it, but sometimes a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, ya know? No? Dang irresponsible punk .... Anywho, I sallied forth to try my chances on a date with destiny. I arrived to find a fiasco. The place was full of squalor and what wasn't squalorized was foreign. Not that I'm xenophobic, that's just how the DMV is. So I fill out my form, all 57 pages of it, and walk to the secratary-ish lady. She asks if I have a birth certificate. Of course I have no birth certificate, what do I do, carry it around in my wallet? Unlike my get-out-of-Ohio-free card, I actually don't. So I drove home, scrounged through the hills of random citations, impoundings, restraint orders, and vital paperwork until I came upon my birth certificate in triplicate. I took all three copies back to the DMV (an approximately 25minute drive). On the way I noticed a doomsday-ish flair to the roadways; bodies littered the streets, the broken remains of cars mauled by monstrous SUVs were imbedded in wounds so gruesome you'd vomit imagining just the therapy, and police officers stemming off waves of angry insurgents determined to enfore the "No Shirts, No Shoes, No Government" policy. But I was only slightly phased.
I proceeded to my destination and handed the paperwork to the lady. "Here's your number. Enjoy." Let's see, number A81. "Now calling A 15." Doh! Ah well, waiting time. I sat down and began working on college applications. Yes, if I was in Hell I may as well make it count. I finished my 15th (Pellissippi High School for the Intellectually Zombified) and finally my number was called. I give the DMV worker my papers. She gets to work. And by "work" I mean strikes up a conversation with ther coworkers.
"You know what Shirley, I enjoy smoking crack."
"Yes Diane, but it's so expensive. That's why I have this deadend job. You know, it makes me so angry sometimes, the injustice of it all."
"You know, if you elect John Kerry he'll give you free crack every other Tuesday."
"Really? Hotdog! Libertarian it is."
"Libertarian? I hate people. All of them. Even this smug looking jerk right here. That's why I'm a Nader supporter."
So she punched me in my kidney and handed me my papers. "Your name will be called in a few moments, honeydarlinpumpkinpie." The reference to cannibalism was disturbing, but what isn't in government institutions nowadays? So I sit back down and wait. And wait. And wait. Three hours later "Dialon Muges." I walk up and announce my presence. The FBI comes in. "Mr. Muges, you're wanted on charges of larceny, theft, kleptomania, megalomania, maniaomania, corruption of minors, corruption of majors, corruption of the European football league, and production of illegal mutant vegetables without a license."
I reply, "No I'm not."
"Yes, you are."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"Am not."
"Are so."
"I plead the Fifth."
" Denied."
"I plead the Eighteenth."
"Repealed."
"I plead guilty."
"Innocent."
"Woohoo, I win."
"Blast."
They shot me. But with my dieing breath, I grabbed my new driver's license and yelled, "My only regret is never eating cultured yogurt!"
And that's about it. I embellished a bit, but you're smart intelligent people. You'll be able to discern the truth from the dramatic flair. Right? Right. Or left. I really could care less.
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