That Time I Demanded a VIP Experience at the DMV
There are few places in life where entitlement should really count for something, and in my mind, the DMV was one of them. See, I had important things to do—places to be, people to charm—and sitting in a government-issued plastic chair surrounded by the general public for what felt like an eternity was not one of them.
So, there I was, armed with my impeccable sense of self-worth, striding into the DMV like I owned the place. I took one look at the ticket system and thought, Oh no, no, no. This is a clear misunderstanding. I’m not a ‘B274’ kind of guy—I’m more of a ‘Straight to the Front’ type.
I approached the desk with all the confidence of someone who had never faced true consequences. “Hey, so, how do I get into the VIP line?” I asked, leaning on the counter like I was about to order bottle service.
The woman behind the desk blinked at me. Slowly. “Sir, we don’t have a VIP line.”
I chuckled, assuming she was being coy. “Come on. You mean to tell me there’s no special tier for people who—let’s say—value their time a little more?”
She stared at me in a way that made it very clear she did not, in fact, value my time. “Take a number.”
This was unacceptable. I glanced around, searching for some kind of manager—surely there was someone who could recognize the gross injustice of me waiting with everyone else. But all I saw were tired government employees and even more tired citizens who had, apparently, accepted their miserable fates.
So I did what any self-respecting entitled person would do. I sighed loudly. I muttered about the inefficiency of government agencies. I paced, checked my watch dramatically, and gave the employees my best do you know who I am? expression.
And then, after two hours—yes, two actual hours of waiting like a commoner—I finally reached the counter. “License renewal,” I grumbled.
The woman, the same one from before, simply smirked. “Oh, you forgot to fill out your form. Back to the end of the line.”
The moral? Entitlement only gets you so far. And at the DMV, it gets you precisely nowhere.
Lesson Learned:
The DMV doesn’t care who you think you are. Bring a snack.
