Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Pick Two (aghrivaine) wrote,
Rum, Sodomy, and the Lash: Pick Two
aghrivaine

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Sisyphean Ordeal

Getting my car back was arduous, and at the end of the day, extremely expensive. And naturally it entailed dealing with some serious assholes.

It's only natural - either people who are gigantic cock-stabbing ass-clamps are attracted to jobs in which their miserable, fuckermonkey personalities are if not an asset, at least not a huge defecit; or those kinds of jobs turn worker-drone blanks into gaping ass-wounds as a result of the work. Either way, you get a certain kind of person at the DMV, at the Parking Enforcement Authority, and especially at the impound lot. In the process of being sufficiently irritated by them to gartify their sick need to make the world a slightly worse place due to the psychic pollution caused by their sick, twisted swamp-fuck souls, I sincerely wanted to somehow garner the power and authority to make sure they were all kept away from these jobs.

But then it hit me. That would be a tragedy. Oh, not because it wouldn't warm the cockles of my otherwise loving heart to see these awful dung-leeches get a taste of the human misery they daily spread; no sir, it would indeed. But rather, if they weren't working at the places where you know you're going to be dealing with some ass-clogged sister-fister, they could be working ANYWHERE. Like you'd be checking out at the grocery store, and suddenly the guy throwing your top ramen and key lime pie yoghurt into a bag suddenly gives you a massive attitude, and simultaneously throws a zillion roadblocks in your way, and laughs at the angst it causes you. And then you kick that guy in the nuts, because fuck it, you can get your ramen anywhere, right? Okay, so maybe that would be a little better than the places where, no matter how big a shit sandwich they feed you, you have to suck it up and pretend that 20 trillion flies must be right after all, and crap does taste good! Because if you don't, they won't let you pay through the nose for whatever tedious, beauracratic crap you need them to do. But still, at least when you head to the DMV, you know you're dealing with raging pre-menstrual dong-trolls. You can gird your loins. You can plaster on as fake a "Yes sir, your bullshit is fine by me!" grin on, and pray for the day when the revolution comes, and the shotgun sings it's glorious song of revolution from it's dark steely throat. You can prepare yourself with vivid fantasies involving fire ants and cheese-graters.

But what if they could catch you anywhere? Let's be glad they're at the DMV.
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