|All Things Are Made of Fail
||[Oct. 28th, 2009|11:33 pm]
It turns out that I still don't (or no longer do) Officially exist— or, in the words of the helpful Official minion at the Office of Official Things, I have "fallen out of the system." Due to my extreme tardiness in re-verifying my existence, I must now present an Official Birth Certificate before I can be granted an Official Identity. Behold! I'm being treated just like a President! Proof of America's commitment to equality!|
I do find it a bit odd that I must present a birth certificate, which lacks any personal likeness of myself, when I yet retain my expired Official State Proof of Existence and Identity Card, and said card not only features on its face my own likeness (and my appearance has changed remarkably little since that photo was taken), but features my likeness wearing exactly the same jacket I wore when I went to the Office of Official Things today! Ah, well, the Minions of the Officials know best what they can or cannot allow themselves to see in front of their noses, I guess.
Anyway, I don't have an Official Birth Certificate in my possession, but only one of those documents issued by the maternity hospital. It features in inked impression of my tiny foot, awww, and I really wish that the Official Minions would accept this document as proof of my existence. This could easily be done by making an inked impression of my now-far-larger foot and comparing its enduring patterns against its old miniature, perhaps with the aid of some spiffy computer program that would analyze those patterns. I harbor this desire not only because it would be of greater convenience to me to have this document accepted, rather than having to get the now-distant County of Los Angeles to cut loose with a copy of my Official Birth Certificate, but because the thought of Official Minions at the Office of Official Things dealing with sweaty adult feet day after day brings me pleasure.
However, it seems that I don't actually have to deal with the County of Los Angeles directly to acquire a copy of the desired document. It appears that the State of California has gathered unto itself the records of all the counties in the state, and now deals with public requests regarding these records through its Office of Vital Statistics, the telephone area code of which reveals its location to be in the nearby metropolis of Sacramento. Sacramento, by the way, takes its name from its eponymous river, which was in turn named by the Catholic Spaniards in honor of (I believe) the Holy Sacrament. Whether or not any or all of the parts of the City of Sacramento (or the fishes in its eponymous river) transubstantiate, I cannot say. Perhaps the Office of Vital Statistics will know. The Government of the State of California is itself, I have heard, very close to being God.
In any case, the saga continues, and the year wanes, and once I have acquired (if in fact I ever do) the requisite document the local Office of Official Things will accept as proof of my existence and identity, I will need to return yet again to said office and, most likely, wait outside its door for some time, as I did this morning in bright sun and chilly wind, or, more likely, in weather far less salubrious, until the appointed hour of the Official Office's opening, whereupon I will once again Take a Number and Wait my Turn.
Perhaps next time my transaction will not be abortive, and I will at last receive that Temporary Document which serves as a promise that the True Official Document of my Identity and Existence will, eventually, be delivered to my very door (or at least to the very box at the street end of my driveway) by an Official Representative of the Government of the United States of America. Then shall my trials come at last at an end... except for the Official Summons to serve Jury Duty, of course. Oh, by then will I ever be in the mood to hang the poor bastard who's on trial!