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I Was Voter Suppressed! (Kinda Sorta)

3 Nov

November 2, 2024

Today was the big day when I decided to exercise my right as a citizen to vote in the big election. Unfortunately, they were not accepting ballots for who I want kicked out of the Big Brother house so I had to settle for voting for President. Who knew that was up for grabs again?

Since I was already there I got on line and after a few minutes of acquainting myself with the candidates and grumbling about what happened to David Palmer and why he wasn’t up for reelection, it was my turn at the sign-in desk.

This is completely true. I know I say that all the time but trust me, this is really truly completely true, not the mostly semi-true that I usually mean. This happened exactly the way it is written below. Honest! (Seriously, would the Editors and Staff of Mr. Blog’s Tepid Ride let me write it if it wasn’t true? Well, despite that, what follows is truly true to the most truthful period, comma, and colon. And I had a colonoscopy recently so I have medical documentation.)

The wait was fairly short, about ten minutes, and then I got to the check-in desk. A middle-aged woman was behind the desk and she ran through the brief instructions with all the enthusiasm of someone who already repeated those instructions 400 times that day. I gave her may name and address, she entered the info on a tablet, swung it around, and asked me the info on the screen was correct. It was.

She then asked me to sign on the screen. I did so, and she swung it back around to check the signature. After she looked at it for far too long, she said to me, “is this your signature?”

I replied “Yes. You saw me sign it.”

She then erased it from the touch screen. I was signed in to vote and she had effectively eliminated me from voting.

She then showed me her voter registration book and told me “sign it more like this.” She pointed to my signature in the book. She said “that’s your signature from when you registered.”

I said to her, “do you know how old that is?”

She said yes, although she did not, and looked in the book. She then told me “it’s from the 1980’s.”

I was expected to sign my name in 2024 exactly the same way I did when Bill Cosby was reigning as TV’s Top Dad, OJ Simpson was playing the goofy Nordberg in The Naked Gun, and Brian Mulroney was still the Canadian Prime Minister. (That last one is for the international audience, eh?)

So I imitated the decades old signature and swung the tablet back and the woman scrutinized it and then, she actually did this, took her finger and somehow altered my signature. Then she gave me the ballot and sent me off to vote.

Of course, the irony of it all is that when it was time to vote, I didn’t even write in my own name for President.

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The Bulgarian Package

31 Aug

August 31, 2023

Three weeks ago I was trapped in my apartment by a lavish Russian wedding.

But I digress.

I was on my way from work tonight with an unusual pep in my step. Usually I come home dragging like a wet Chihuahua, or some kind of simile like that, but tonight I had a pretty good energy level. At the office I am one person doing the work of three people but I have the aggravation of five, so algebra may have had something to do with it. (I was never any good at math.)

I was only a block and a half from the house when I got a call from my wife. She said that we have a package on our doorstep, and in a hushed tone, she said “it’s from Russia.” I don’t know why she said it so secretly. The only person around was our cat Cocoa, and he is not technically a person no matter times I call him “my sweet little boy.” And he would not care if we got a package from Russia as long as we feed him on time.

My wife, whom I will call Taylor Swift, wanted to know if she should bring it inside. I told my wife, Taylor Swift, that I would be home in five minutes and to leave it there. My wife, Taylor Swift, was cautious, and probably rightly so, and so my wife, Taylor Swift, yada yada yada Taylor Swift, yada yada yada my wife Taylor Swift… have I beaten that into the ground yet?

Anywho,(this is not formal enough anywhom) I got home and sure enough, there was a small orange box, about the size of shoebox for child-sized shoes sitting in front of my door. I picked it up and it was very light. However, it was not from Russia, it was from Bulgaria.

According to the customs declaration, it contained “vitamins.”

I know what you are thinking. “A box from Bulgaria containing so-called vitamins? Mr. Blog, you are about to get a visit from some hairy foreign gentlemen in track suits wearing sandals and socks wanting to ask you a few question in the back of their flashy sedan with the tinted windows and gold rims, neon lights around the license plate, and Bulgarian flag hanging from the rear-view window. It will be driven by a man named Oleg.” Wow, that is oddly specific.

The box was addressed to my correct address but to a name that I had never heard of. I have gone under many names (The ladies at the local deli know me as Mr. Big Pants) but I had never used a name even I could not pronounce. Marking the box “return to sender” was not an option, and it was my address, so why not open it and risk a federal charge or mail theft?

I carefully opened the box by sliting the tape around the edges with an X-Acto knife. My wife Taylor Swift was worried that there might be dead animal inside (I did not ask why) but I was worried about, well, I’m not really sure what I was worried about, but this box brought out my inner Mission: Impossible.

I Jim Phelps-ed the bag and inside was a plastic shopping bag with the name of a Bulgarian pharmacy and the classic RX mortar and pestle logo (which is how I brilliantly deduced that it was the name of a pharmacy emblazoned on it and not some Bulgarian soda brand. Or maybe it is. Who the heck can read Bulgarian?)

Inside were twenty-four small boxes about the size of the boxes film used to come in. And yes, I fully realize that this is a reference that in the Great Year of 2023 will go over the heads of anyone born this century. God I feel old right now. Each box appeared to be a legitimate box of triampur compositum, which Google tells me is an over-the-counter diuretic. Which means that someone got a box of pills shipped from Bulgaria just to make them urinate.

I put everything back as I found it, taped it shut, and left it in the lobby by the mailboxes where hopefully a hairy Bulgarian gent in a tracksuit named Oleg will find it and leave me out of this. I have no desire to know what this is really all about. After all, I have Taylor Swift to worry about.

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