Get Fucked, America

After being guilted into voting, I dress the kids and take them with me to the polls. Everyone was all like, “Oh, it only took me five minutes blah blah blah civic duty.” Whatever. So, I get there and get in line. Notice how I said line? Yeah, five minutes my ass. Twenty minutes in line trying to entertain three toddlers, it was finally time to clear my conscience and vote. That’s when they couldn’t find me in their computer. I get pulled to the side. To a new line! At this point, I am thinking to myself that America can go get fucked. They can’t find me in this line either. Thirty-five minutes of waiting to vote has my kids all hopped up and ready to see the ballot booth I have been hyping up since I got them dressed this morning. Instead, I am told I am not registered and have to go to City Hall. This is pretty funny, since I registered on Facebook like two months ago. As I drag my spawn to the car, I am now openly saying America can get fucked.

We decide to make our way to City Hall anyways. It’s been almost an hour, so why not drive through the ghetto part of the city where people think the middle of the street is a good babysitter for their kids. Of course the only parking space open is a half hour one. The kids and I rush into City Hall and up two flights of stairs to this broom closet registrar office. My son has been shouting off colors he wants to vote for. He is pretty sure he wants to vote pink, but red is also interesting to him. His brother is dead set on voting for the number 3. The littlest doesn’t know what the fuck is going on, but I said ice cream before we left so he keeps reminding me we are supposed to be getting ice cream.

I fill out the forms to flex my rights and stand in line in this tiny room with the other people who probably got fucked over by Facebook. With one person left and time ticking to move the car, my children need to pee. Of course. So I have to get out of line, run up some more stairs and take them to pee. I have run enough flights of stairs at this point I could be a fucking Beach Body coach. We get back down and into the line of voters-to-be.

When we get to the front, the lady starts asks me if I am a first time voter. When I tell her yes, she starts giving me all sorts of shit. Sorry, Ma’am, the other elections didn’t have the apocalyptic feel this one does. Come to find out I am registered a town over from my own. Apparently, I registered to vote seven years ago. Fuck me, right? Now she is giving me shit for being an inactive, registered, voter. At this point I have made up my mind that if I ever get my ballot I am just going to scrawl ‘GET FUCKED AMERICA’ across it.

She finally hands over the ballot and directs me to my booth. “Do you know how to do this?” she asks, like I am not part of the generation who grew up on bubble tests. I tell her I think I got it, before I begin filling in my choices. My kids have begun crawling on the floor, between people’s legs, having a grand old-time. I assume someone is going to accuse us of voter intimidation or something, so I quickly put my ballot in it’s envelope and go with the boys to put it in our district’s box. The protector of the ballot boxes is some lady who has probably been around longer than woman’s suffrage rights. She gives me a sticker and then gives one to each of my kids. Now I am worried about someone seeing my three-year-old with an ‘I Voted!’ sticker and crying about how the election is rigged.

We make our way to the car just in time to swoop out of there as the meter maid comes to make his rounds. I go home, take my ‘Fuck You I Voted’ pictures for the Facebook and of course my kids freak out. One didn’t get to vote for Pink ( I am starting to think he is talking about the singer) and the other didn’t get to vote for three. On top of it all, when I pull my youngest out of the car, he reminds me we never got our fucking ice cream.

Yeah, America can get fucked.

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