I got fingerprinted today. I had to go to the police station, go downstairs to the jail, and talk to some officer while he dipped my fingers in ink. Getting fingerprinted is part of the long process I have to go through in order to get my permanent residency for Canada. The things I do for that country.
If you go to the police station in my hometown between 1pm and 1:15pm, you’ll see a woman flipping off the entire station. She fills me with so much joy. Schizophrenics either fill me with joy, or terrify me. I’m sure if I went up to her I would burst into tears, so for now I observe from afar. My brother and I saw her flipping off traffic so, being the idiots that we are, we rolled down our window and said “Wazzzzup homieee?!?!” I don’t know what her response was, but I think she was speaking in tongues.
When I went down to the jail I was going to place my coat on the bench, but the officer looked at me and said “Don’t put your coat there…we get some nasty people sitting on that bench.” Here’s a thought officer, why don’t you clean the bench after nasty people sit on it? I should be a police woman. But I have to give him props for having my coat’s best interests in mind.
The most painful part of the process was the fingerprinting itself. Well, the fingerprinting wasn’t painful, but the small talk was. Small talk is just so sad and awkward. I asked the officer if they put a lot of people in jail and he said “more than you think.” How does he know what I think? What if I thought there were a million people in this suburban jail? MORE than a million? Saying “more than you think” is the most retarded response ever.
I couldn’t help noticing that the cells seemed kind of cozy. You could be all safe in your little cell, no material possessions, no distractions. Just 3 walls, a bench, and a door. Now that’s living the simple life.