10 February 2004

As I Ramble On About Various Nothings....


--Someone please tell me they've seen the new Quizno's commercials with the singing (I think they're) mice with the cutout mouths and the sombreros. F*cking hilarious. Blake, I wish you still owned a few. Absolutely hysterical. Every time it comes on I can't get it out of my head for hours.

"Any coupon works...for hair plugs or pony rides....eat Quizno's subs..."

--On the heels of the brilliant Quizno's Mice, I need to talk about Threebrain. I recall being exposed to this sophomore or junior year of college. I don't know if you could call them a "band"; I think they're more suited to the "Performance Art" category. It's unexplainable. Here's what you do: go to their website I've linked here, click on the link on their page that says "Rock Videos" and watch the one entitled "Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee". Did I say it would change your life? It will. A grand step above The Badger Song Site in creativity and artistic merit, but light years ahead in the "What the f*ck is this?" department.

--Has anyone watched The Inferno yet? It's the new RW/RR Challenge on MTV. Absolutely fantastic. RW Las Vegas Trishelle has zero--and possible negative--shame. To say that she has hit an all-time low in the realm of television would be The Understatement of This Short Century (TM) because 99% of television to this point have been fictional characters. If aliens came down to earth and judged humanity based on RW Las Vegas Trishelle, we'd either be vaporized or transported back to planet Schnarflat where we'd be forced to mine useless metals for thousands of years.

That said, I sat watching The Inferno last night giddy as a schoolboy, giggling (possibly cackling) wildly at the sheer Christmas Gift of Reality Television, thanking the Gods that some people will put their Train Wreck Lives on display for the masses. But hey, true perfection has to be imperfect, right?

And tonight's Real World San Diego? F*CKING GIDDY!

--Every time I see the video for I Believe In a Thing Called Love by The Darkness I cannot even think of changing the channel. I feel like a sixteen year old girl in 1986 watching a Poison video for the first time. I'm guessing it's not possible, but is it...I mean, are they...is there any chance they can be serious? The guy with the mustache and Village People Hat make me think they can't be. I mean a giant Space Squid attacking their Star Trek Spaceship should tip me off, but then you see the lead singer and you have to wonder...Jesus. Here:

The Darkness

Their lead singer gets my props as #2 Most Disgusting Male On Earth, coming in close behind #1, the Guy Who Sings the Diddys in the "Real Men of Genius" Commercials ("Don't knock my smock...").

--I picked up my grandfather the other night to get him to my mom's house. Pa is 83. Pa is not the safest driver on the road, and it's a miracle he asked me to pick him up, on account of the rampant ice here in Alask...er, Harrisburg. He advised me to take the highway to my mom's house rather than the back way, as, in his words, "there are cops crawling all over it." To which I said, "Well that doesn't matter for you because you don't speed, right Pa?" He replied, "Yes I do. I like to go." Frightening words from an old, unsteady man who a few years ago bought a new car because he "needed more Uumph." God help us. I'm thinking we should possibly revoke his license before someone gets hurt. Seriously.

Thought about this again today while I was at the DMV. First of all, I know people make jokes about this all the time, but that place really is a f*cking leper colony. I'm convinced that normal people don't walk into that building to get Driver's Licenses; they just have them drop-shipped to their house. Being in there made me concerned that there was really something wrong with me mentally and physically. I'm not kidding. Besides the deaf guy that was loudly asking people questions and getting pissed when they didn't understand his unintelligible garble, there was the dude who kept bopping his five year old on the top of the head, the woman who took up literally two seats and complained audibly that the chairs were uncomfortable, and the woman who complained extremely audibly to the desk attendant that she didn't realize you had to have a Birth Certificate to get a new license, much less take a driving test, and when asked was unable to produce a license form another state, and when the attendant queried how she got herself to the DMV, the woman picked up all her junk and left.

Secondly, I sat there for an hour and a half the first time. Finally my number was called. I walked up to the guy sitting there and said I needed to change my license over from Virginia to Pennsylvania. Simple enough. I had a piece of mail with my address on it. I had my VA license. What else could there be? In Virginia, they just switch you over. Good state. Efficient.

But not Pennsylvania. Oh no. I was told that I'd also need a Birth Certificate, a Social Security Card, and another piece of f*cking mail with my name and address on it. I explained to the guy that my Social Security number was already on my Virginia ID and that I had previously had a PA Driver's License. He looked it up in the computer. "Ah, there you are," he says. Phew.

"Now," he continued, "as soon as you can get that Birth Certificate, Social Security Card, and another piece of mail with your name and address on it, we can get you all squared away."


I return home. I eat a chicken sandwich. I feel like I have to go to the bathroom, but settle for just a Dragon Draining (TM) only as I have plenty to get on with. For some reason I'm delusional, thinking I can wait. Remember this lapse of judgment.

I return to the DMV. More of the same people. One guy, seated about three chairs away from me on the end of the row, actually blows a f*cking snot rocket on the ground. NO ONE SAYS ANYTHING. In protest, I move to the corner of the room and curl up in the fetal position, weeping gently.

After a half hour or so of me crying, an old lady walks in. She's in the 70-80 year old range. She forgets to take a number, so someone points out to her that she needs to get one. It takes her ten minutes to find the huge f*cking orange box that says "TAKE NUMBER HERE" located right in front of the f*cking entrance. Sure, I could have showed her where it was, but remember: You Don't Talk to People at the DMV. So she finally gets her ticket. Turns out she's there for a driving test and didn't need the number in the first place. Dumb Luck I guess. Her name gets called. I watch as she passes the Eyesight Test after four tries. The guy testing her is being really patient and too lenient for my own mental well-being. Finally, he sends her over to a block of computers to take her Computer Test. It's seventeen questions. The same one we all took to get our Learner's Permits. You have to get fourteen right to pass.

After twenty minutes or so, she walks back over to her son who has now come into meet her. "I didn't understand the questions," she tells him. "I know I failed. I didn't understand a single one." She goes back to the guy at the desk and tells him the same thing. "Maybe you did better than you thought," he says. He clicks away at the computer. A look of grave concern crosses his face. "Ma'am," he starts, "you missed every question. If you didn't understand, why didn't you come ask one of us to help you?"

"Well they were just so confusing."

The guy looks back at his monitor. "Ma'am, your first question asked you, on a two lane highway, which lane is the considered the 'Passing Lane'. Do you remember?"


"Answer 'A' was the Left Lane, answer 'B' was the Right Lane, and answer 'C' was Skip. You chose answer 'C'. Why?"

"I was confused."

He clicked something off on his monitor. "Well then, Ma'am, you shouldn't be driving. I'll need to keep your license. It is currently suspended. You can retest in six months. Take a book and study."

I wanted to stand and clap. Whoop and holler. I don't give a damn if any of you think this is mean, as I think it's absolutely necessary. You might feel bad for her, but at least the roads are safer. She made some remarks about how she had been driving for 60 years and how would she get to Bingo now and what about if she wanted to visit her daughter in Dallastown (exactly one town over).

"My advice, Ma'am? Relish the fact that I'm going wait 20 minutes to suspend this license so you can drive home. Then get a bus pass."


Now Pa's admission that he speeds doesn't make me so frightened. It probably should, and maybe I'm lying, but I don't think so.

Everything else went smoothly, except for the fact that at the hour and fifteen minute mark of waiting for my number to be called...well, remember the chicken sandwich? The refusal to take care of nature's processes? The chicken sandwich was on wheat, and I don't eat a ton of fiber. By the time they called my number, I had to crap so bad that my lip was quivering and I had gone blind in my left eye. I sat down in front of the nice lady, lopsided from the pain, knowing that one sharp sound or one errant elbow from the person next to me and I'd release. Violently. Wait until you see my new Driver's License Picture. Then I really would have been one of the DMV people, fair and square.

Final tally: $26 (f*ck me running, you pr*ck b*stards), 2.75 hours, one-half tank of gas, one chicken sandwich, and one distended colon.