Being Stupid Sort Of Pisses Me Off

I got a ticket the other day. Highway Patrol saw me from a block away, pulled over and waited, and when I turned off the street, came after me and pulled me over. I knew what it was for.

Three and a half years ago my Jeep was stolen. When it was recovered the cops noted the front license plate was missing. Oh, I’ve got it, I said. Took it off for the paint job. It’s in the garage somewhere.

Now and then I get a letter asking about it.

So I finally got my fix-it ticket. He said, go to the DMV, give ‘em your old plate, they’ll go get new ones made, after you get new plates, come down to the courthouse to show ‘em. He wrote all sorts of stuff on a little piece of paper, I signed it, got my yellow copy, have a nice day.

Today at lunchtime I figured, I got nothing else to do. On the ticket he’d written “301 Bicentennial Cir”. Oh yeah, I remember that place. Off I went. Twenty minute drive down the freeway, offramp and around, almost pulled into AAA. Nope, that ain’t it, must be that government building. Yeah, it’s a courthouse, but I guess they have a DMV inside.

I gotta pay a dollar to park? Screw that, is this not a public building? But there was nowhere else to park. Put my last dollar bill into the machine (the second one -– the first one wouldn’t take it), went in through the metal detectors, went to the counter ...

Yeah, this was a courthouse. County courthouse. DMV is a State thing. Ain’t no DMV on Bicentennial Circle.

Calmly and sedately drove back up the freeway to the office (believe that?). Guess I’ll hit up the Department of Motor Vehicles some other day. Yeah, there’s one right here in town. I knew that.

So now it’s late afternoon and I’m bored with the boredom of being between times of heavy lifting. One always has to prove one’s value at this place, so I try to come up with shit to do that the next level up won’t have to wonder about. Oh, Don’s doing such and such, okay, cool. Obviously, anything I come up with is a lot less interesting than anything I would come up with that does NOT return value to the company, but whatever. So I need a fix. Some kind of upper to inject. Cruised by the vending machines, decided a Diet Cherry Coke and some sort of chocolate bar ought to create a fine intersection of chemical imbalances such that I get energized and sweet-tooth-happy and vaguely sick all at once, help push the afternoon along.

Did I mention I spent my last dollar on a parking permit I didn’t need?