A day ruined by bureaucratic nightmare.
7am. I wake up early for no other reason than to try to get a special piece of paper from a mind-controlled zombie which will magically allow me to get a job outside of the imaginary lines of “my country”. Who drew those lines, anyway? When, and why?
7:20am. Finish pounding my second cup of coffee.
*Flashback* - I went to numerous places the past few weeks in a vain attempt to find gainful employment in this country and was told the same thing by all. “You need a work permit before we can hire you.” Translation - “You need some clowns in stupid looking costumes to give you a special piece of paper which will magically allow us to hire you.”
7:22am. Ponder what life would be like in a free society.
7:23am. Dreadfully come back to reality and check to see that all of my papers are in order for the brave attempt I am about to make to actually get a piece of paper with a magic stamp (also known as a work visa).
7:30am Start speedwalking to my undesirable destination. Finding motivation difficult. Need a bathroom already and realize this is going to be a very long day.
7:59am I actually managed to be the ninth person in line outside the Immigration Service Center for Bureaucratistan (since when is stealing my time and money a ‘service’?). The building itself has all the charm of a punch in the testicles.
8:30am Make attempt to talk to the zombie next to me. “So what are you in for?” I ask. “What?” pudge face snarls. I respond, “I’m here for a special piece of paper that will allow me to get a job. How about you?” “What? You’re weird.” “Enjoying your freedom, zombie?” “Shutup!”
8:31am Regret trying to make smalltalk with zombie next to me. Proceed to stare at sidewalk and try to not look annoyed.
9:05am Disgusting parade of power tripping bureaucrats enter their haven fashionably late (office opens at 9am). The smugness is so thick you can cut it with a knife. I see a few people in line get excited, a couple of them actually have fawning looks on their faces. The entire display makes me want to vomit. How many hours of mental and physical human capacity have already been wasted today? And for what?
9:17am A small child runs wildly up to one of the clown’s desks and gleefully spills what appears to be a sticky beverage on the carpet near the clown’s foot. Clown shrieks and face turns color of ripe tomato. I’m happy and want to adopt that child.
9:43am Some observations of the scene. There are roughly twenty-two drones in costumes stationed at various desks and counters around this remarkably mundane office. None of them are in a hurry. They seem to enjoy making people wait. I’ve already seen them shake their heads no a countless number of times. Do they ever approve anything?
10:01am I still haven’t been called up to the alter to speak with one of the wannabe gods of the state. How is this possible? I’m number nine!
10:03am A breathtaking blond sits next to me. I can’t resist to see if there’s hope for her. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could travel, live, and work wherever and whenever we want? What do you think?” She feigns a smile, “Yeah, that would be nice, but there are too many stupid people. It would be chaos. We need control.” I decide to go further. “Is there chaos right now in the world?” She doesn’t hesitate, “Well, yeah, I guess.” I take it another step, “So if we have chaos and control right now, wouldn’t it be better to go without the control? It might reduce the chaos.” Her face twists, “Are you one of those anti-government people?”
Conversation ends. Not much hope for blondie.
10:37am I get the magic call up to the royal desk! I’m greeted by a pudgy, spectacled she-devil. “I’m here to apply for a work visa.” She looks down on me with dark bemusement. I quickly ponder how a human can end up like this poor hag in front of me. “I need to see your application,” she bellows. I hand her the tedious document. She scans it and smirks. “You used black ink. We only accept blue ink.” Of course. What was I thinking! “Ok, I’ll do another one. Can I go ahead and show you the rest of my papers that I painstakingly put together over the past few days?” The malevolent glee on her face says it all but she talks anyway, “You’ll need a new application first.” I try to use logic (what a fool I am!) “Wouldn’t it be more efficient if you go ahead and look at all of the stuff I have now, give me a list of things I need to do with explicit instructions, and then I’ll come back.” She looks offended. I’m enjoying the annoyance I’ve caused. “We have procedures.” “Yes, your procedures waste time very well. Do I need another number?” She points to a sign across the room hanging precariously over a counter which reads, “Get re-entering number here.” “And where might I get another application?” She makes a fuggly face and says, “Online printout only.”
I decide that I’ve had more helpful conversations with stone walls and walk away.
10:45am Printing out new application at cyber cafe a couple blocks from that paper-pushing hell. Buy an overpriced blue pen.
10:55am Sipping my third cup of coffee at a nearby caffeine shack. Loathing filling out another form. Wondering how many more rejections I will suffer before some progress is made at that evil institution.
11:30am Get my re-entering number from a pointy-faced stooge wearing a masonic badge of dishonor. I ask him as I take the magic number, “Do you know what that symbol on your chest means?” He scoffs and says, “I don’t care. It’s just a job. Next!”
11:31am My hope for humanity dwindles a bit more.
12:03pm I get called up to another desk, this time to a heavyset spectacled zombie with gray hair and a thick mustache. Can tell he’s been doing this job way too long. He looks like he hates grandma and apple pie. “I’m applying for a work visa. Here’s my application.” He takes it and groans heavily. “I need two passport photos, one square inch each.” I produce the geometrically perfect pics. “Health certificate.” I produce a page signed by a local doctor. He smirks. Not a good sign. “You need copies, in triplicate, notarized and stamped by an official clinic.” “Where can I find this magical clinic?” He’s not amused. “Do I look like a tour guide?” I think about throwing all the papers off his desk, cackling like a maniac, and running away. “No, just a person who’s wasting my time and energy.” He hands me a slip of paper with a list of “official” clinics with addresses.
12:30pm I make it to the nearest clinic. Heart sinks below ground as I read sign on door, “Closed for lunch. Return at 2pm.” I kick the ground and curse all statists. Decide to gorge myself at the nearest restaurant.
1pm At a hole-in-the-wall get a ginormous Cuban sandwich and a pint of beer. That’ll get me healthy for sure. Cute waitress asks how I’m doing. I tell her, “The mind-controlled losers a few blocks away are stealing my time and money. This is one of the worst days of my life. How about you?” She grimaces and walks away. Telling the truth is hard sometimes.
2:10pm I pay twenty dollars to get my health paper stamped by a nurse at the “official clinic”. Can I make copies here? Nurse frowns and gives audacious look. “You need a copy shop for that.” I glance at the copy machine behind her, growl, and walk away.
2:11pm Regret not having a second pint.
2:24pm Get another re-entering number. Think about asking the desk stooge if he could ever hold down a real job based on performance. Notice that the office closes at 3pm and decide to zip my lip.
2:49pm I get called up to one of the paper-pushing demons one more time. A pidgeon-faced bitty with the charm of a concrete mixer stares at me with lobster eyes as I take my seat. I tell her, “Here is my work visa application, in blue ink, two passport photos, one square inch each, my health certificate, in triplicate, and my certificate of good conduct (bureaucratese for background check) signed and stamped by the local interpol office, in triplicate, and last, but not least, a cherry on top. Laser beams shoot from her eyes. My super-soul blocks the evil energy. Good triumphs over evil again. “Work contract,” she says with no emotion. “I was told I need a work visa before I can be given a contract.” Shakes her demon head emphatically, “No, no, no, you need a work contract before we can grant permission to work.” “Is there anything I can do?” She cuts me off. “Get a work contract.”
3:01pm Pounding another pint at the sandwich shack. I spent a full eight hours of my day and accomplished absolutely nothing. I am back to square one. Such is the madness of the state. Ponder how wonderful the world would be if only enough people would disobey authority.
Thanks for your time and attention!
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