Report From Hell: DMV

I’ve been to hell, and I spell it…

spell it DMV

“DMV” Primus

First off, let me apologize for no report from Hell last week (or the week before that). We were, um… busy (and by busy I am in no way inferring that we rented a few games and movies and lounged all Friday… Oh no, we here in Hell are very serious and professional people, tirelessly working to make Earth a worse place to live for everyone).

No, we were working hard at doing… bad things… yeah, that’s the ticket. And thanks to our efforts, um… global temperature went up by a tenth of a degree, and uh… oh, yeah, we removed a couple of Miss Teen South Carolina’s brain cells just long enough for her to make a fool of herself in that little clip that everyone’s seen. Right, like American kids can be that kinda dumb. Not with our education system, no sir.

*ahem*

Moving on.

But we’re back and better than ever here in Hell, located below a popular amusement park in Sunny Southern California. Well, okay, maybe not better than ever. Let’s face it, with Bush in office, there’s just not a whole lot to do. It’s taken care of. I mean, okay, at first it seemed nice that Bush wanted to do all the dirty work for us on our behalf but now Hell’s gotten… well… boring.

Even Satan thinks so, and as Satan likes to say, “When you’re tired of internet porn, you’re tired of life.”

And man are there some worn out forearms down here. Never mind.

Now, you would think there are plenty of things to do to alleviate boredom down here in hell, and sure, there are plenty, but as many of them involve me being put into excruciating pain, there comes a point where you would rather be bored than not. But we’re not talking about MY boredom, gosh no.

This is Lucifer here, and as you can imagine, his imagination is pretty sick. You know, I had thought I’d seen it all, but I have to tell you that watching Lucifer prance about the living room in a pink tutu and wearing my kidneys as earrings was something of a shock.

And please please please don’t make me retell the 48 hour Singing Senators marathon… Can you believe Lucifer used loopholes and legal ninjas to make such a thing not be considered torture? Yeah, neither could I.

Of course, I also had a hard time coming to grips with “legal ninjas” as something other than a clever metaphor, but I swear to the Devil, there they were in their ninja outfits and carrying briefcases. And boy were they good. If Bush had these guys on his team, he wouldn’t be in half the trouble he’s in now. But no, he had Gonzo, so his bad.

It’s been a boring coupla weeks in Hell, though painful. While nothing particularly exciting happened, I had just about every organ removed from my body and used for some silly purpose or another just to help pass the time, and while screaming, “DEAR DARK LORD PLEASE STOP IT HURTS SO BAD!” might have been hilarious to Satan and some of his buddy buddy demons, I was thoroughly not amused.

And that’s about when it happen. The doorbell rang. Hell’s doorbell is in and of itself a pretty frightening thing to experience, it sounds kind of like a cat being skinned alive done to a Brittany Spears music track. I think the only thing that would have made it worse is if Brittany Spears’ actual vocals were used, but, well, copyright infringement laws and all.

Normally, Satan would have made me get the doorbell, but he and Meteran (a particularly foul smelling demon) were playing croquet in the living room, using my legs as mallets, and my ribs as gates. I reserve the right to not tell you what he was using for the balls.

Being immobile as I was, Satan went and got the door himself. It was Steve, the mailman.

Steve’s a nice enough guy, that is, nice enough considering his soul had been scooped out the very first time he laid eyes on Satan, the Dark Lord has that effect on some people. So, what with no soul and all, he usually doesn’t talk much, just rings the doorbell, delivers the mail, and walks away.

Sometimes there’s drool.

“Hey Steve, how’s it going?” Satan asked when he saw the mail man.

“…”

“That’s great. And the wife and kids?”

“…”

“Man, little Timmy must be growing up so fast. Still planning on that vacation to Florida?”

“…”

“Yeah, well, I’ll try not to lay that particular bit of real estate to waste, but I can’t make any promises.” Lucifer laughed. I just watched in awe.

Steve just stood there, his eyes glazed over, a small trickle of drool trailing away from his flat, dead lips.

“Right,” Satan said, breaking the ringing silence. “So… We got mail?”

Without a word, slowly, mechanically, Steve’s hand reached into his bag, and pulled out a small bundle of envelopes. He handed them to Satan, and then continued to stand there, staring emptily.

“Thanks,” Satan said, beginning to sound a little uncomfortable. “Um… Well… I’ll see you next time Steve.”

“…”

“Er, right,” and when Steve made no move to leave. Satan closed the door on him. The Prince of Darkness (not to be confused with Bob Novak) took three paces from the door and cringed. He retraced his path back to the door and opened it once again.

Steve was still standing there.

“You can go now, Steve,” Satan informed him, and as silent as ever, Steve turned on his heel and walked away. Shaking his head, Lucifer closed the door and started rifling through his letters.

“Bill, bill, bill, bill, You’d think they would know better than to send these things to me, not after I killed and eviscerated the souls of much of their middle management,” Satan whined.

“Perhaps, master,” Meteran hissed, “You should storm their head offices… That might bring about the desired effect.”

“Bad idea,” I countered, earning me a very disapproving glare from the demon. “He wants them to send out the bills, that’s what he created corporations for in the first place, to bilk people. He just didn’t want that to happen to him.”

“We’re short a gate,” Meteran seethed. “Perhaps we should use the squishy’s jaw, master?”

“Leave him alone,” Satan said disinterestedly. “I like him better than you anyway, Met. You don’t shower often enough.”

Meteran glared at me with righeous, jealous, rage. I knew he would find a way to get his revenge sometime.

But what that revenge was, we would never learn as at that exact moment, all of the bills came tumbling out of Satan’s hands. All except one.

“What is it, master?” the sycophantic Meteran asked. The froggy little demon had his damn tongue lolling out for Beelzebub’s sake! Bloody ass kiss.

But my animosity would be erased by three letters.

“D.M.V.” Lucifer replied ominously.

Meteran and I both fell into stunned silence.

The Lord of the Pit swallowed hard, his eyes betraying an intense fear. “I-I-It says… that I… I have to… um… go in for a… driving test.”

My jaw still attached, I was able to let it drop in shock. Finally finding my voice I said, “B-But… that’s terrible, what did you do?”

Obviously worried, Satan stammered, “I-I don’t know. I’ve kept everything up to date, hadn’t had a traffic ticket in ages, and that was just for rolling through a stop sign on an empty road. I swear the cop must have been invisible or something…”

“You do have nightvision, master…” Meteran agreed. I wanted to puke. Well, okay, I had wanted to puke for some time based on having half of my body removed and being in a great deal of pain, but you get the idea.

“Can you get out of it?” I asked.

“I don’t think so,” Satan shook his head.

“That’s terrible.”

“You’re coming with me,” he added, to which I gaped.

“But…”

“It says my license has been suspended, you need to drive me. Get the Evilberry ™”.

**

It is often believed that the Department of Motor Vehicles is an invention of the Morning Star himself. Nothing could be further from the truth.

In fact, if you want a good example as to why I follow Satan, you need look little further than the DMV. The Beast, Lucifer, Satan, the Serpent, the Dragon, the entity of this universe whose sole purpose it is to create pain and suffering could not match the sheer cruelty inflicted upon a soul by standing in line for hours on end within those sterile, soul-sucking walls.

He couldn’t come close.

This was an invention of man, and in its sheer cruelty, the design was beautiful. The most brilliant scientists in Hell have long theorized that the DMV actually does strip people of portions of their soul, physically, and have spent nearly as long trying to harness those departed shards of being, but have thus far failed.

It is with this knowledge we passed through the grimy glass double doors into perhaps one of the darkest places on Earth.

Before you even begin the true festivities you must go to the information counter. This is a misnomer. You will gain no information at the information counter. As part of the brilliance of design, however, the person manning the information counter (usually a toad-like woman in her mid fifties who looks as though her glasses were carved out of granite and her hair had been styled by sticking her fingers in a light socket) is actually capable of handling any and all business you may have at the DMV.

She can do this quickly and efficiently, answering every question you have throughout the event, and seeing you on your way within fifteen minutes. Despite this, regardless of what you say to her, she will invariably hand you a clipboard with a form written in a language not even used on this planet, and tell you to fill it out as she gives you a ticket.

You could tell her her hair is on fire and you will still receive the clipboard and the ticket… especially if her hair really is on fire.

“Welcome to the DMV,” she rasped. “How can we help you today?”

Fool’s hope leapt into my companion’s eyes. Maybe, just maybe this one time she would help him out. He explained the letter he received. He explained the circumstances and how there was no way he was due for a driver’s exam. He even explained (rather unnecessarily) that he was the Devil himself, and would grant her every desire to get him out of this, he wouldn’t even take her soul.

“Yes sir, if you could just fill out this form, and wait until you’re number’s called, a representative will be with you in just a moment,” she croaked as she handed him a clipboard and a ticket.

Satan’s shoulders hunched.

Part two of the torture is small, almost insignificant, but bears mentioning. The ticket displays invariably a letter and a two digit number, giving the impression that no matter what you draw, you shouldn’t have very long to wait.

This is all just trickery, of course. In fact, the moment your number is called has nothing to do with either letters or numbers or actually any sane understanding of order in general. Instead, you are called only when you have waited long enough to experience the maximum amount of mental anguish without actually going blissfully mad.

To be dead honest, we’ve been trying to figure out how they do that for ages and have still come up empty.

Part three is the waiting area. There are rules to the waiting area.

Rule 1- You will be seated next to someone who bathes only at the time of the Equinox… unless you happen to visit the DMV on the Equinox at which time the guy who bathes on the Equinox is at home bathing, and is replaced by the guy who only bathes on the Solstice.

Rule 2- You will be seated adjacent to one of the following:

-annoying teenagers who don’t know how to shut up.

-parents who don’t know how to shut their own children up.

-perfectly reasonable people who for the duration of their visit to the DMV somehow manage to lose the capacity to shut the hell up, only to regain that ability upon leaving the DMV.

Rule 2a- There is a subrule that on every third visit, one of these people will try to actually talk to you about something you have no desire to talk about. You must not treat them rudely, however, given the length of time you’ll be there.

Rule 3- You will be seated adjacent to someone who chews gum… very loudly.

Rule 4- You will be seated near someone you know, have never liked, but have never let on that you didn’t like because of the awkwardness such a revelation will cause.

Rule 5- Finally, you will be seated near someone you find incredibly attractive, but because you weren’t preparing for this, you will be wearing “laundry day clothing” and will remember only after trying to start up a conversation that you forgot to brush your teeth that morning.

Satan and I looked around the DMV, and found only the only two seats next to each other and sat down.

We looked to our right. Before we saw him, we smelled him, stale cigarette smoke and farts almost visibly wafting off of his blue checked flannel shirt and “John Deere” green ball cap. He smiled at us, showing his blackened teeth.

From behind us we could hear two teenage girls talking:

“Like, omigod. I was at study hall, and Jimmy asked me out on a date and I was like, um… I can’t because I have this thing to go to…”

“Jimmy? he’s like totally gross, I can’t believe he would even think to ask you out…”

“I know but he did right? And you know he’s a really nice guy but…”

“Hey Satan!” came a calm, pleasing voice from a few feet away and we both turned to look.

Satan groaned.

“Hey Jesus, funny seeing you here.”

“Yeah,” Jesus said, smiling as he walked over. “Got this letter about a driving test.”

“Yeah, me too.”

“Funny huh?”

“Really funny… So… er… How’s Dad?”

“He’s okay, well you know, as okay as he can be in these times.”

“Right, all the killing and stuff going on in his name. He never liked that.”

Jesus folded his arms. “Well, you know Dad, eternally forgiving and all. It’s a good thing he has infinite patience, or, well, you know.”

Satan nodded.

“J-86” a mechanized voice boomed out over a PA system.

Jesus dug a ticket out of his robes and looked at it. “Well, what’dya know! That’s me! I’ve only been here five minutes.”

Satan grumbled.

“Look, you should come by for my birthday. Don’t worry about bringing presents or nothing, just stop on by and we’ll catch up on things. He doesn’t say it, but I know Dad misses you.”

Satan mumbled something about maybe if he could clear up his schedule, and then Jesus did the unthinkable; he hugged the Prince of Darkness. Half-heartedly Satan returned the gesture and watched as the messiah marched off to the ticket counter.

We continued to peruse our surroundings. I heard someone smacking at gum annoyingly and turned to my left to see… well… she was gorgeous; short spiky dark hair, dark glasses, fair skin with just a slight tinge of pink to it, and when she saw me looking at her, she flashed me the cutest smile.

“Hi,” I said.

She flinched.

“Is, something wrong?” I asked, and as I did so she cupped her mouth and nose.

From behind her hand I heard her mumble, “Did you gargle sewage or something?”

It was right about then that I remembered that I never brushed my teeth, what with having my legs and ribs reattached I was a little preoccupied.

Slumping in my seat, I pulled out the Evilberry ™ and hooked onto the internet.

“Whatcha doin?” Satan asked, trying desperately to ignore the foul smelling man in the blue flanel who had apparently taken to stroking Satan’s arm.

“Trying to catch up on the news, ” I said. “It’s kind of hard to do with my legs and ribs removed.”

“Right, sorry about that.” At this point, the man in the blue flannel started tapping his foot insistently when Satan rounded on him. “THIS ISN’T A RESTROOM AND WE’RE NOT IN MINNEAPOLIS!” he shouted, and the rank old man cringed in fright.

Turning back to me, Satan said, “Anything good?”

Mike O’Hanlon’s dissing the GAO,” I mentioned as I loaded up a video on the tiny little screen.

“Wonder if people still think he used to be a critic of the war?” Satan pondered aloud.

“Probably, look how long it took for them to catch on to the fact that Saddam had nothing to do with 9/11.”

“Good point.”

“How are we doing with the Iran War effort?” Satan asked. “All going well?”

“Um, hold on, let me look,” I said as I clicked through the little device. “Okay, here we go… let’s see, more drumbeating, yeah. Oh, now this is interesting.”

“What?”

“Well, the IAEA has been saying that Iran’s been cooperating rather nicely with them, but I think Bush was trying to minimalize this because it doesn’t fit the narrative, but the IAEA aren’t having none of it.”

Satan leaned over and read the screen. “Damn, he was able to sell the Iraq war so well, what gives on the Iran one?”

“Maybe the fact that he didn’t wait until after getting into war with Iran before screwing up the one in Iraq might have something to do with it.”

“Damn, okay, good point, we’ll have to come at it from another angle.”

I sighed. “Let it go, Satan. Bush can’t even remember what country he’s in half the time, do you really expect him to pull off a miracle twice in one presidency?”

Shrugging, Satan countered, “It’s possible.”

“Right, like it’s possible for Ron Paul to get the GOP nomination,” I rebutted snarkily.

“But then the wars would end,” Lucifer pouted.

“True,” I agreed. “Can’t have that, but while I know we don’t want him to have a shot at the White House, you gotta admit it’s hilarious when he gets up there and calls the rest of the candidates on the carpet for being idiots.”

“Luckily we had Chris Wallace there to tie what Paul was saying to bin Laden… If he hadn’t done that, just think of how many Republican voters might have come to their senses.”

“Indeed.”

“Anything else?”

“Mother Goose and Grimm writing the ‘Patraeus Report’?”

“Really?”

I scowled at him. “Of course not, but it’s a funny cartoon.”

“You’re evil.”

“That’s why you keep me around, sir.”

“Good point.”

“Let’s see… Oh, yeah, Seattle apparently didn’t take too kindly to a couple of their star players making Bush an honorary Seahawk.

“Those boys need better publicists.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “After the Niner’s sweep em this year no one will care about Seattle anymore.”

“Whatever,” Satan scoffed. He’s a Dallas fan. Bastard.

Time drug on. Minutes turned to hours, and I could have sworn a sunset and sunrise or two snuck in there. Satan was getting restless.

“Read this,” I said.

“What is it?”

“An interesting piece on the difference between conservatives and liberals in perceiving the gender gap.”

“Why would I want to read that crap?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Because you’ve been trying to gouge your eyeballs out for the past two hours, sir, and I thought you might want to give them a break.”

Satan grunted as he took the Evilberry and started to read.

The attractive girl sitting next to me had gone, replaced by the twin brother of the smelly guy, and things were beginning to look hopeless. Then, like a choir of ang… er… very musically gifted demons singing, we heard it.

“b66?”

“That’s us!” I screamed, poking at Satan to get up.

“What? I’m reading, this…”

“Sir! THEY’RE CALLING OUR NUMBER!”

“Oh shit!” he said, fumbling through his pockets to get the ticket. We ran to the counter that was flashing our number and produced our ticket.

The man behind the counter was thin, bald, with a hook nose and pasty white skin. He looked like he ate children for a hobby… Whatever the case, Satan went through the entire spiel again as the man looked as though he completely and totally failed to register a single thing the Dark Lord said.

Finally, when it was over, the man in an eerily high pitched voice said, “Just one moment sir.”

His fingers tapped furiously against the keyboard of his computer as Satan grew more impatient. Finally the typing stopped and the man looked at Satan with large, bulbous eyes under heavy lids.

“Well?” Satan said anxiously.

“I’m sorry sir, the letter was sent to you by accident…”

**

Later that night, as we watched the old DMV building go up in a blaze on the nightly news, Satan looked over at me and said, “You’re doing all the driving from now on.”

note: I pull a good portion of the links for my Hell reports from our friends in the blogosphere. If you would like your blog featured in a future Hell post, just send me an email. It wouldn’t hurt to toss us a link every now and then also. Enjoy your weekend, and I’ll catch you tomorrow for our weekly musical posting.

 

 

One Response to “Report From Hell: DMV”

  1. matttbastard says:

    You know, it says a lot that the GOP candidates and their enablers attack Paul by painting him out to be a 9/11 truthin’ running buddy of Bin Laden (“d00d, you know Doc totally does Osama’s weekly dialysis treatment!!11″), instead of pointing out the fact that Paul’s a racist, militantly pro-life, John Birchin’ anti-UN nutcase.

    Probably ’cause those would be considered ‘pluses’, considering the target demographic.

    (More on this next week *ahem*. Hope you guys are ready for the inevitable flying monkey assault.)

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