DMV or Diarrheal Mahatma Voodoo
Only in America could a severely flatulent white woman, a nice gentleman from India, and his Haitian wife meet in the line at a Department of Motor Vehicles office, and bond. Still suffering The War of the Bowels, I was feelin' mighty poorly, and the last thing I EVER want to do, (much less when I am suffering from diarrhea) is go to the DMV. But the new Neon had to have the taxes paid and the license purchased, because Husband must commute from the farm through a nearby small town, and the fine upstanding officers who may read this so I am not about to say anything bad about them, do tend to look for those minor infractions like one mile over the speed limit, or two minutes past the expiration of your tags. So, while Husband was sympathetic to my plight, he requested that if it were humanly possible, he wanted me to go take care of the nasty business. And nasty it was. I packed up my troubles (and Kaopectate) in my ol' kit bag (along with all of the necessary paperwork) and biled, biled, biled. The line snaked around in a zigzag pattern, disguising how long it really was. Sneaky bastards. An exotic couple were last in line when I entered the building, and were muttering to one another in accented English, about the pitiful lack of available office workers and the wife's desire to put a hex on the clerks who disappeared through a side door never to be seen again. I stepped into the space behind them and promptly passed gas. They turned, I blushed, and apologized. It was the first of many such moments. My gut ached and cramped. The line never seemed to move forward, but other weary applicants lengthened the queue. The couple in front of me turned again when an involuntary moan escaped my lips. "You sound berry bad," the kindly gentleman from India said. I nodded. Motioning to the slow-moving line and group of folks who continued to pour into the building, he asked, "is it always this crowded?" You know you're in a bad situation when a Calcutta native thinks the place is crowded. I nodded again, afraid to open my mouth, fearing a sulfurous belch might escape and combust, the room was so hot. An old man several spaces ahead of us was pretty clever. He had retrieved a chair from the hallway, and sat in it in line. Every so often, he would abruptly stand up and spout random epitaphs to no one in particular. After his pronouncement, he would sit back down, and doze off for a while. I conversed with the couple, who explained they had met in a community college class. They were very nice, and held my spot for me when I felt something heavier than gas about to escape, and dashed to the toilet. When the old man took his turn with the clerk, the nice gentleman from India retrieved his chair for me. Finally, I was able to shuffle off to beefalo. That is not a typo, it is a product sold at my next stop, the nearby meat store. It a cross between beef cattle and buffalo, high in protein, low in fat, and amusing to imagine being conceived. I drive past the buffalo ranch if I take the gravel road into town, and they are magnificent beasts to behold, but for some reason, picturing one of them fornicating with Elsie the cow, just makes me giggle. I feel a little better today, and plan to sit back and chill, 'cause it's my birthday! Best wishes to all who read!