The Passport Letter


Dear Mrs. Ms. Or Sir:

I'm in the process of renewing my passport and still cannot believe this.

How is it that Radio Shack has my address and telephone number and knows

that I bought a cable TV from them in 1987 (23 years ago), and yet, the

Federal Government is still asking me where I was born and on what date.

For Christ sakes, do you guys do this by hand? Ever heard of computers?

My birth date you have in my social security file. It's on EVERY income

tax form I've filed for the past 30 years. It's on my Medicare health

insurance card and my driver's license, it's on the last eight damn pass-

ports I've had, it's on every stupid customs declaration form I've had

to fill out before being allowed off the plane for the last 30 years.

And it's on all those census forms that we have to do at election times.

Would somebody please take note, once and for all, that my mother's name

is Maryanne, my father's name is Robert and I'm reasonably confident

that neither name is likely to change between now and when I die.

Between you an' me, I've had enough of this bureaucratic bullshit!

You send the application to my house, then you ask me for my friggin'

address. What is going on? You must have a gang of bureaucratic Neander-

thal morons working there! Look at my damn picture. Do I look like Bin

Laden? And "No," I don't want to dig up Yasser Arafat, for shit sakes.

I just want to go and park my ass on a sandy beach. And would someone

please tell me, why would you give a damn whether I plan on visiting a

farm in the next 15 days? If I ever got the urge to do something weird

to a chicken or a goat, believe you me, I'd sure as hell not want to tell

anyone! I have to go now because I have to go to the other end of the

city and get another friggin' copy of my birth certificate to the tune of

$100. Would it be so difficult to have all the services in the same area

so I could get a new passport the same day? Nooooo, that would require

planning and organization. And it would be too logical for the friggin'

government. You'd rather have us running all over the place like chickens

with our heads cut off. Then, we have to find some asshole to confirm

that it's really me in the damn picture - you know, the one where we're

not allowed to smile... Hey, you know why we can't smile?

'Cause we're totally pissed off!


- An Irate Citizen.

P.S. Remember what I wrote about getting someone to confirm that the

picture is me? Well, my family has been in the United States of America

since 1776. I have served in the military for something over 35 years

and have had security clearances up the ying yang. However, I have to

get someone important to verify who I am - you know, someone like my


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