Go Robot, It’s Your Birthday
I suck at blogs. This is the only post on this blog since the first post, making this my second post. I do maths good.
Today is my birthday. I’m one year older, one year wiser, a rock and roll star, king, czar, and a kaiser.
I like how the first birthday cards I got were from the government, saying “Give us money or we’ll make it illegal for your car to be on the road.” Ad valorem taxes. So-called “luxury taxes.” I’m pretty sure automobiles stopped being a luxury sometime in the last, oh, hundred years, when some dude named Ford figured out that you could make cars really cheaply if you hire a bunch of people and give them all carpal tunnel from turning the same nut 50 times a minute.
Ahem. Since it is the month of my birth, and the state in which I live sets your automobile taxes’ due dates during that month, I went to the Covnty Covrthouse to pay the man. While there, I figured it was a good time to get a new driver’s license, since I recently moved to a different county, “recently” being 5 years ago.
The line to renew your car tags was out the door and around the corner, so I skipped that and went over to the driver’s license desk. The clerk was an older woman, undoubtedly hardened by years of grueling service to the county. I gave her my old license and a recent utility bill, and amazed her that I had a check with my current address on it… you know, because I moved so recently. She told me to sit in front of the camera, which had a blinding array of lights the size of a paving brick. I looked at the camera, put as much energy as I could toward turning the edges of my mouth slightly upward, and then she said, “I’m going to take your picture now.” 5 seconds pass. 10 seconds. She asks, “Are you going to smile?” I ask, “Are you going to take my picture?” She then snapped the most horribly-lit picture I’ve ever seen. I felt bad for snapping at an old woman, but at the same time, I loathe having my picture taken, and will go to almost any length to avoid it. Like, I will hide. If alcohol is involved, I might add “crying” to the hiding. It’s bad. But back to me and the old woman. We kissed and made up, I registered to vote in my new county, then left.
My next stop was the City Building. I’m not sure if its name should be capitalized, but I’m sure the costs of this monster of a building are. Even with all the money they spent on it, they don’t have good signage announcing its presence. I tested whether my car has antilock brakes (it doesn’t) when I braked and turned into the parking lot. Thank goodness the police station is in the same building and that a cop was in his car watching. An angry glare (frightened cower) from me made him think twice about coming after me. I went in the building and found the Administration desk, which is protected from the general public (in an almost-rural city, mind you) with bullet-proof glass and one of those “slide your money to me using this tray” things. I ask this government battle-hardened woman what kind of permit I need in order to build a patio on my house. Before I can dig a hole, throw some sand in it, and put some bricks on it, I have to give the local government a copy of my deed, my plat records, my estimated costs and plans, and $30, and ask for their permission. Too bad I’ve already starting digging a hole before asking for permission. But this hole that I’ve already dug was for my neighbors’ rock-crawling RC trucks. That is the honest truth, inspector.
I’m now home, wondering what to do with the rest of my birthday. It will most likely involve drinking some cheap bourbon, since I can’t afford the good stuff after I pay my car taxes online, which I’ll do as soon as I post this.
P.S. If you’d like to get me a present, I would like a single, hot, naked, legal female in the Cincinnati or Northern Kentucky area. Grazie.
