ThinkingSkull.com

In the great State of Florida, the divorce rate is worse than one out of two marriages ending abruptly, so you must either take a class (consisting of reading a pamphlet in the lobby) or wait extra days between applying for and receiving permission to marry. So there was my future wife and I sitting quietly together reading about the horrors and ruin of divorce (including eternal damnation!), but I finished first and turned in my “test.” The woman behind the counter only then began to fill out the license paperwork.

I supplied my name, current address, and all the usual things used to steal identities, and then she asked me if I was born in Florida. I answered no, so she asked me for my home state. “West Virginia,” I answered.

The woman smiled weakly and glanced down at her sheet. She repeated the question as if she hadn’t heard me correctly, and I answered again. Her eyes darted about the paperwork frantically before she drew a long, air-of-superiority breath and said, “We don’t list geographical regions with the state code, so I’ll just pencil in Virginia, okay?”

At this point I heard my wife suppress a giggle, which was immediately picked up on by the suddenly panicked office worker. As her hand slowly reached under the desk to push the silent emergency “angry redneck alarm,” I calmly asked if there was anyone else to speak to. Withdrawing her hand with angry empowerment, she demanded to know why she was no longer sufficient to handle my business.

“Because West Virginia is an actual state,” I answered.

Apparently the office manager had not only been listening in but finally made a personal appearance to correct the office worker, who had to be shown a list of the two-letter codes for all fifty states before she glared at me as if I’d somehow added this new information to her chart just for spite.

Your tax dollars at work, folks.