DMV, you a dirty mistreater, a robber, and a cheater

Stepping inside of the DMV is like hurtling into the alternate universe of 1950's futuristic ideals. Lines of people bisect each other and move in diagonal conveyer belt formations, like some sort of avant garde production on the utopian freeways of the Jetsons, people symbolizing the pea pod automobiles. 

And in front of a flickering, 24-inch TV showcasing a plain blue screen with appointment numbers scrawled in block letters are a group of automatons seated row after row, all eyes strained toward their impending turn. I had the feeling that if I put a lighter underneath one of their noses wax would slowly drip off the tip and form a puddle on their lap, proving that I was actually looking at an exhibit in Madame Tussauds.  

The DMV made me inch closer to unlawful driving, if only to spite what I think is a house of horrors. A place filled with salivating teenagers straining against their harnesses to grasp onto a driver's license and shame-faced adults enduring chastisements from bureaucratic evil-doers.