Monday, September 13, 2004

 

Flobie, That's The Way It Should Be.

I normally can't complain about the Pentagon barbershop. Sure, it's a flobie cut, but it's only seven bucks, ten with tip, and they get you in and out in a jiffy. I'm not particularly vain; I'm a guy, and short hair is short hair. Although, you do have to watch the barber like a hawk lest you run the risk of looking like Elvis after his induction.

The barbershop is one of the nice things nice thing about working in the Pentagon, or in my case, frequently going to meetings at the Pentagon. Okay, scratch that, there's nothing nice about going to frequent meetings-- but you catch my drift.

Another perk at the Five-Sided Funcoland of Destruction is the Virginia DMV conveniently located in the shopping concourse. I needed to get my driver's license renewed, and so I took care of that this morning.

While at the DMV today, I successfully managed several tricks:

-- I should be wearing glasses, as I've had a prescription before. I drive just fine without them, I really only need them for deciphering letters at distance, like street signs that read "Exit Beltway Here" and "Only 283 Miles Until South Of The Border." The reason I currently have two versus four eyes is because my last pair of glasses broke apart at a Steven Wright comedy show this spring. That statement should be funnier on the page, but I guess you have to read it in the original Flemish.

When dared to read the top line on the eye chart, I skillfully bent my corneas before I looked into the DMV Spock-viewer, and managed to ace the test. Well, it's not all about vision, folks-- by exercising a little logic I was pretty sure that I was reading the letter "B" and not, in fact, an ampersand.

-- I gave my weight as probably a good fifteen pounds less than the gargantuan reality, and I pumped up my height a tad, all without sparking hilarious laughter from the clerk behind the counter. No, really: I may not look like it, but from the right angle I am a dead ringer for Manute Bol.

-- I managed to do all this while the security guard waiting for service in the line next to me brandished a submachinegun.

However, I probably made a poor choice when my clerk asked me if I wanted a new license photo. My face has gotten a bit pudgier hair, my hair a lot grayer since my last photo, so I figured it wouldn't hurt to have an accurate license.

Alas, dummy me forgot that I had just gotten my hair cut by defense-contractor barbers. I swear to God, I now look just like Private Pyle on my driver's license.



Oh well. At least no sergeants will eff with me now.


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