| rev:text
| - Inferno
Entering the DMV is like passing through the Gates of Hell.
A stench of sweat and popcorn permeate the air as you cross the threshold.
Children are weeping and wailing shrieking for salvation. An immortality of pain and tears; an infinity of wretchedness and despair; await you. After waiting in the mandatory "Information Desk" line, the prince of darkness will assign you a number. A quick glance at and the red glowing board reveals a mere 300 victims to go. Rows of wretched souls, dammed for all eternity, are seated in the first circle of Hades. They are craning their necks watching the board, waiting for their number to appear. A number that will never appear.
After a while, hunger will set in. The DMV continues to provide, with a snack-bar from the underworld. Five dollar corpse meat hot dogs are the fanfare. The "food" items appear to be brought in the trunk of an Oldsmobile after a run to Costco. Tepid flat soft-drinks help wash down the insult.
The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time. If you attempt to escape the air of brimstone for a few minutes by sitting outside. You will be greeted by an unwashed woman out front wandering around sifting through the ashtrays picking out discarded cigarettes. She finds a pack of discount brand smokes and opens the lid, it is empty. She crushes the box and tosses it down the rubbish container. Hanging off her bottom lip is dangling her trophy, a half smoked butt.
Purgatorio
Back inside is a purgatory inhabited by maloven demons whose desire is to make their visitors as miserable as themselves. Their eyes seemed like rings from whence the gems were gone. It is not surprising, they have to work at the lake of fire every day. Lucifer's computerized voice constantly drones out meaningless numbers. "G7123" the machine spews. The condemned peek at their little wrinkled scraps of paper and moan. You wait and wait. When it is time to go to the window, you realize you will feel even worse soon. "I cannot understand why I am here at all" you tell the ex-angel behind the counter. "All those things evil things people said about me are just rumors", you plead. "You have sign an affidavit of non-operation", the beast announces with an evil grin. The only way out is to ratify the agreement with a pen that writes in red. They take hideous portraits that can only be intended to diminish the character of the card holder.
To call what they do bad service would be a disservice since it is not service at all. Do not believe the wait time listed on the internet. It is merely a trick to lure the uninformed. Count on two and an half hours in the Black House to reflect upon the gloomy fate bestowed upon you.
Paradiso
There is escape. Run through an overfilled parking lot while you can.
Run through the gauntlet of voter registrars. Flee past the two men exchanging big wads of cash behind a pickup's door. Any direction will do. After all, any place is better than the DMV.
"The path to paradise begins in hell."
Dante Alighieri
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