When I die and I’m flung down to hell, I will be forced to listen to the theme song to Sanford and Son on a loop, spliced with the smoothest of the smooth jazz.
24 hours a day, I will I wait in line after ever-loving line. Just as I reach the end of one line, a faceless drone with the IQ of my cat will snidely inform me that I am in THE WRONG LINE and I will be booted back into another series of lines where I will wait.
Forever.
The people in front of me will vary.
Sometimes, I will have the enormous woman in the halter top who will stop screaming into her cell phone every couple of minutes to shriek, “WHATCHU LOOKIN’ AT?” Sometimes, I will have a leering older man with a dent in his forehead who will say, “You got a purdy mouth.” Every so often, I’ll have to sit on hard plastic chairs–the butt sweat kind–where small children will pelt me with toys.
This will be my hell. It will look remarkably like the DMV. Or the Post Office.
While I tend to be organized, the very thought of having to get my driver’s license renewed or visit the Post Office fills me with dread for weeks. Rather than just DO IT already, there’s always a cat to be waxed or a house in Paris to be, uh, dusted. Never mind that we don’t have a cat or a house in Paris.
There’s just something off-putting about a chore that involves being berated for “doing things wrong” when I don’t know how to do it right. Don’t get me wrong, I like rules–I was nicknamed Super Becky Overachiever for a reason. But first, I need to know the rules.
Thankfully, I suppose, I don’t have a job* that requires I use either with any regularity so it’s only several times each year that I have to go. And this year, for Christmas, I decided to give myself the gift that keeps on giving–I’m making my husband, The Daver, do the mailing.
After I’ve built it up like this, I’m sure he’s going to come back all smugly, “What were you TALKING about, Becky? The clerk gave me a present!”
Which is fine.
If only I could make him renew my driver’s license for me.
*Job? What job?
About Aunt Becky
I have a very similar conception of hell… but your looping Sanford & Son soundtrack does make it extra-devlish.
Twitter Name: DrCynicism
I don’t believe in jobs.
Twitter Name: serial_writer
I can’t help you with the Post Office = nothing can save you there. But here’s how I thwart the power of the DMV; go 1/2 an hour before they close. They can’t go home until you do = and people get remarkably motivated as closing time approaches & there is no overtime.