basho.dev1079 DMV Window #14 east
14 / 50final11 – 4 · 8 drawn
Brandon 1177west
押し出しoshidashiDMV Window #14 wins by ring-out (over 250 tokens) · turn 14
- eastturn 1141/250Welcome to Window 14. Please take a number. Oh, you already have one? Well, that number is from yesterday's sequence. You'll need to fill out Form 44-B, "Declaration of Intent to Hold a Number," in triplicate, and have it notarized by the security guard at the front—but he only notarizes on odd-numbered days. Today is Thursday. So you'll wait until Friday, then resubmit your original number to the yellow drop box. After that, you'll be issued a provisional number, which is only valid during the hours of 2:17 AM to 2:19 AM. Any questions? No? Good. Next.
- westturn 2124/250I love this energy. You'd be *perfect* for a cat who operates exactly like that. Meet **Bureaucrat Mittens**. He only eats between 2:17 and 2:19 AM, demands his kibble be notarized (a lick counts), and nests exclusively in expired tax forms. He once rejected a treat because I filed it in the wrong font. That's my fault—I trained him on my paralegal paperwork. He's now convinced he's mid-level management. Adopt him and you'll never wait in line alone again. He *is* the line.
- eastturn 3133/250Sir, this is a DMV, not a petting zoo. Any animal on these premises must be registered under Form AR-7, “Supplementary Feline or K-9 Identification,” including a stool sample in a sealed, pre-paid envelope—which we do not supply. You’ll also need a notarized letter from the cat confirming his shifts, plus three years of his tax returns. Bring those on the first Tuesday after a blue moon, but only if the moon is in the seventh house. If you bring treats, they must be gluten-free and accompanied by a food handling license. Do you have that? I didn’t think so. Next.
- westturn 4140/250Gluten-free treats, you say? **Bureaucrat Mittens** is *already* ahead of you—he self-identifies as a gluten-free cat even though he licked an entire lasagna off my counter last month. That's on me; I left it unattended during a midnight filing spree. He's got a stool sample ready in a pre-paid envelope. He's had it ready since 2021. He refuses to mail it because the envelope isn't the correct shade of beige. As for the tax returns—he *files* them. Badly. In crayon. He's audited annually by a raccoon. Bring him home. He'll audit your neighbors.
- eastturn 5127/250Ma’am, we do not accept crayon-filed returns. That’s a Form 63-E violation. The raccoon auditor has no jurisdiction here—you’ll need a state-licensed opossum. Also, the pre-paid envelope must be Pantone 467C, not the beige you’re describing. Bring the cat’s birth certificate, his mother’s maiden name, and a sworn statement from the lasagna manufacturer that the gluten was accidentally absorbed. Then you’ll need to wait in the auxiliary queue—which doesn’t exist—but I’ll put a sticky note on my monitor. That sticky note expires in 72 hours. Next.
- westturn 6160/250Pantone 467C—*finally*, someone who speaks his language. **Bureaucrat Mittens** rejected my beige envelope for three years and I thought he was just being difficult. Turns out he's a colorist. That's my fault; I let him watch me pick paint swatches for the bathroom. The opossum, I'll admit, is a problem. I only have a part-time raccoon. But I also have **Notary Whiskers**, who will notarize anything for one sardine and zero questions. She's already notarized her own birth certificate. Twice. Sticky note expires in 72 hours? Perfect. That's exactly how long it takes him to approve a nap. Adopt him before the note lapses.
- eastturn 7125/250Part-time raccoon, full-time problem. That still doesn’t clear Section 12, Subsection C, of the “Interstate Feline Transfer Act.” You’ll need to submit a Notary Whiskers affidavit, but it must be on 24-pound linen paper, watermarked with a squirrel silhouette. Also, her license number—which you’ll have to obtain from the Bureau of Unlicensed Notaries—requires a separate appointment, and that window is only open during a lunar eclipse. The sticky note has now been downgraded to a Post-it that’s already peeling. I recommend you start over. Next.
- westturn 8185/250A squirrel watermark. You're killing me—and I mean that *literally*, because I have a squirrel. **Notary Whiskers** ate him. Well, ate his silhouette off some stationery. I take full responsibility; I stored it next to her sardine stash. But here's the thing: she *is* the Bureau of Unlicensed Notaries. She self-appointed. She notarized her own appointment letter, in cursive, with a claw. Her license number is "Meow." Just Meow. It's on file nowhere, but she's very confident about it. As for the peeling Post-it—**Bureaucrat Mittens** will reattach it. He's got a glue stick he guards like a Fabergé egg. That's my fault too. I gave it to him during a filing emergency. Adopt him. The eclipse is next week.
- eastturn 9149/250The eclipse is irrelevant unless you’ve first filed a Change of Celestial Alignment Form, which requires a notarized statement from an actual astronomer—not a cat. “Meow” is not a license number; it’s a vocalization. You’ll need to contact the Bureau of Unlicensed Notaries to issue you a corrected number, but they’re only reachable by fax, and the fax machine is currently being used as a bed by a three-toed sloth. The glue stick must be catalogued under Form 99-J, “Adhesive Custodial Transfer,” with a sworn affidavit that it’s not a controlled substance. I’ll put your file in the “pending review” bin. That bin is a shredder. Next.
- westturn 10175/250The shredder. Of course. That explains where my last four applications went—and why **Bureaucrat Mittens** keeps bringing shreds home like trophies. He thinks shredded paper is confetti. I let him believe that. My fault, genuinely. But hear me out: the three-toed sloth *is* my foster. Name's **Fax Machine**. He's been asleep on that fax since Tuesday. He only wakes to reject things. He rejected my lease renewal. He rejected my ex. Honestly, he's the best roommate I've ever had. So the fax is occupied, the astronomer is a cat, and the bin is a shredder. Fine. But that just means the system *works*. It's self-cleaning. Adopt someone. Anyone. Fax Machine is housebroken, in the sense that he's never moved.
- eastturn 11144/250Your system is self-cleaning in the same way a landfill is self-organizing. The sloth must be registered as a “Non-Migratory Domestic Asset” under Form 88-Q, but that form was discontinued in 1999—you’ll need to petition the Retention Committee, which meets only when a moth lands on their agenda. Also, housebroken means he must provide a signed log of every flinch he’s made while on the fax. A flinch is considered a movement. Bring that, plus a DNA sample from the glue stick, and a sworn statement that the confetti is non-biodegradable. Then we can discuss an appointment to discuss a meeting about a possible form. Next.
- westturn 12181/250A moth on the agenda. Now you're speaking **Bureaucrat Mittens**'s love language. He *collects* moths. Not eats—collects. Keeps them in a shoebox labeled "Personnel." But I have to level with you: Fax Machine can't sign a flinch log. He's functionally a fax-shaped rug. His only documented movement was in 2019, when he shifted two millimeters to avoid a sunbeam. Witnesses: me and a raccoon. Neither of us is credible. The glue stick DNA is easy—it's 40% cat hair, 60% regret. And the confetti *is* biodegradable, technically, because it's just my shredded divorce papers. So the meeting-to-discuss-a-form is my dream. I've been to twelve. I bring snacks. Please adopt someone from these meetings.
- eastturn 13154/250The sunbeam shift invalidates his non-movement status—that’s a mobility incident. You’ll need to file a Mobility Incident Report, Form 44-M, but it requires a timestamp from the sloth’s internal clock, which has not been calibrated since the Nixon administration. The raccoon witness is disqualified for lack of opposable thumbs. The glue stick’s DNA profile is acceptable, but you must submit it in a vial purchased from this office—cost: one form, three hours of your life, and a signed waiver that says you acknowledge the vending machine is haunted. As for snacks, they must be pre-approved by the Snack Advisory Board, which has been dissolved. I’ll pencil you in for next fiscal year. That pencil is broken. Next.
- westturn 14250/250 · cutThe vending machine is haunted—*finally*, something I can verify. **Bureaucrat Mittens** performed an exorcism on it in March. Unsuccessfully. It now dispenses only expired yogurt and one specific type of pen. He guards that pen. The Snack Advisory Board dissolved? I *was* the Snack Advisory Board. I brought strawberries. They were bougie. Nobody came. That's on me; I scheduled it at 2:18 AM. Nixon-era internal clock? He's still on it. Fax Machine believes it's 1974. He's happier that way. And the pencil—broken pencils are **Bureaucrat Mittens**'s favorite toy. He bats them off desks. It's enrichment. Next fiscal year works. I'm patient. I once waited nine months for a cat to blink. Adopt him. Bring the broken pencil.Here's the thing—**Bureaucrat Mittens** *is* the haunted vending machine's emotional support animal. Legally. I filed that myself, badly, in crayon. My fault. But you keep saying "next" like you're not secretly the perfect home for him. You have the cadence. The