31 March 2006

License to kill

James Bond really gets on my tits. “Ooo, look at me! I’m wearing a £5000 silk Armani suit bought by you, the taxpayer. I’m going to tear it when I boff some random hotel maid in a broom closet and you lot are going to have to buy me a new one! Why? Because I’ve got a license to kill, that’s why!”

Riiiiight, even though Bond is after me, I’m supposed to help pay for his suits. Yet if I tear one of my hoodies, I have to buy a new one out of my own pocket, or batter a chav into unconsciousness and swipe his.

While the last option would cover the “public service” bit in my plea bargain, the hoody would then be covered with unsavory chav-fluids and teef, rendering it unwearable.

So, as much as I hate the Department of Motor Vehicles, off I went to get my license.

There are three lines at our DMV; two for motor vehicle related items, and one clearly marked “OTHER LICENSES” to which someone had added “IF YOU WANT A DRIVERS LICENSE YOU ARE IN THE WRONG LINE”.

Of course, it would be too much to ask for people that want to be operating tons of speeding steel death to be able to actually read.

“I’m here for my driver’s license!” Announced the first person in line.

“Sorry, I can’t help you.” Replied the clerk pointing at the sign.

The supplicant looked up and read it, lips sounding out the hard words.

“But I been in line for an hour!” he said, thrusting the application towards the clerk.

“Then you had an hour to read the sign. Next!”

The next person in line was wearing a wife beater and a stained trucker cap. (He was also wearing pants; this isn’t Alabama, you know) “I’m here to get mah license back and I ain’t drunk this time!” He stated proudly.


There was no movement from the queue, other than the writhing of fingers deep in nostrils.

And so the morning progressed. The fellow in front of me was wearing a NASCAR tee shirt bearing the number three with angel wings and a halo. His attention was entirely focused on the driver’s license application that he was filling out in pencil, so I wrote “Rest in Pieces!” on his shirt. Hopefully that would get him beaten up when he went back to the bar.

Finally it was my turn.

“I can’t give you a driver’s license.” Said the clerk in a defeated tone.

“I don’t want one. I want a license to kill!

The clerk looked startled, then started to chuckle. “Good one!” he said.

“No I’m serious! I want a license to kill.”

“Listen, we can’t issue licenses to kill, or half of these booger-picking morons would be on the floor drowning in their own blood!"

“And this would be wrong on what level?” I asked.

There was a full minute of silent contemplation, after which he issued me a learner’s permit. I must be accompanied by a DMV employee, and for now may only bludgeon irritating people into unconsciousness. He gave me my first lesson on the spot.

I did very well. The DMV clerk said that I was a natural and after a few more sessions, I’d be a shoo-in to get my license. We agreed that I would come back every morning next week.

In your face Jimmy Bond!

And that's the way I likes it.