The Tiger Lilies

I am a loyal American citizen. I put my hand over my heart and sing along at ball games when they play the Star Spangled Banner. I pay my taxes, I vote in the big elections. And in the history of the Tiger Lilies, I have never had a post completely dedicated to a political rant, but today is the day.

Am I upset with how the government has handled the BP oil spill? No. It’s Louisiana.

Am I upset over the government bail out of the banks? No. As long as I can keep my credit cards, I’m happy.

No, it was the Oklahoma Driver and Motor Vehicle office that has made me consider becoming an illegal alien.

It all began Wednesday morning at 8:15 a.m.:

I knew that getting my Oklahoma license might take a while because I had entered the DMV office the previous Friday and was scared away by the Zombie eyes of the 50 or so people that were rotting in the DMV office that afternoon. I decided to come back another day right when the office opened. How naive of me.

So on Wednesday morning I waltz in at 8:15 thinking I might be one of the first in line, only to find another waiting room jam-packed with people. (I later find out that the line begins forming outside the office at 6:30 a.m.) I calmly took my number- 616 – and find a seat. Casually I noticed that they are now serving number – 578.

After one hour of waiting I finally gave in to my former addiction, Words With Friends. I had been clean for over 100 days, but finally succumbed and played a number of rounds while waiting.

After hour number two, I was amused by one of the three DMV employees who came out to water the plants in the waiting room and perform his DMV comedy routine. This consisted of several jokes about the wait time and a little flirting with the poor girl who had failed her driver’s test for the second time. His break from helping people in line took about 20 minutes.

Finally, at 10:40, number – 616 was called. I took my birth certificate, social security card, car title, and DNA sample up to the window.

The process was pretty painless and efficient. I was shocked. What had numbers- 578-615 been doing? He checked my documents, my eyesight and then asked for my fingerprints. Immediately, my ACLU internal alert system went off.

“Why do you need my fingerprints?” I asked.

“We keep them on file,” he explained.

Not exactly the explanation that this good American citizen wanted to hear. I don’t plan to break the law anytime soon, but there is just something wrong about the state of Oklahoma having my prints on file for no reason.

Dumbfounded, I said nothing but continued to fume. He then took my mug shot and told me I’d now need to go across town to the tag agency for my license and to register my car.

“Oh, I thought thats what I was doing here,” I said calmly.

“Yes, you are, but we can’t give you your license or tag here,” he clearly explained again.

I gathered my things and rushed out of the DMV office hoping the tag agency would be quicker.

I drove across town and arrived at the tag agency on Waterloo Road. Just an ironic reminder that any revolt against the Oklahoma authorities would be an unwise campaign.

Relieved, I entered the tag agency and found that I was the only person in line. In fact, it looked as if I might have been the first person in the agency all morning. The four employees working here were all passing out lunch from Sonic and Arby’s and ignored me until they all had their french fries, Route 44′s and burgers passed out accordingly.

After they were all greased up, one of the ladies fired up her IBM, entered the appropriate DOS code and found my records from the DMV.

“Come on over here Honey and we’ll take your picture” she says.

I comply, wondering why they need my picture again? I look at the camera and she says,

“One, Two..” click. “Three.”

“Blinked,” she says between sips of her Route 44.

“One, Two, Three… ” pause, click.

“Eyes er shut.” She turns the screen to show me and laughs. Hilarious.

This time I give her my, “I’m really annoyed smile” and sure enough, it turns out.

She takes my finger prints again, to make sure that I didn’t pull the old switch-er-ooo with an illegal alien on the way to the tag agency and hands me my license. It dawns on me that if they’d done this at the DMV, they wouldn’t even need the tag agency anymore. Maybe these were some of the jobs created by Obama’s Stimulus plan.

I leave with my registration, license plate and driver’s license. It cost me $160 dollars and it’s now 11:10 a.m. The lady says, “You’re legal!” as I walk out the door.

Now Oklahoma can tax me. I consider seceding from the nation at that very moment.

But I cheer up as I pass the following sign on my way home:

This guy is running for office– my confidence, restored.