Line Up for Inspection
Written by Plexus Radio on 21 November, 2019
DMV New Jersey – Line Up for Inspection
What comes once a year like Christmas, but is a far less pleasurable experience? As annual as a birthday and just as depressing? And, is against the law to forget, much like a wedding anniversary? You guessed it. Taking the family car through the Inspection Station.
Many of you readers who may be seriously considering moving to New Jersey, (Nickname: “The What’s That Smell State”) may want to grab the kids, pack the bags and head for the Black Hills of South Dakota, rather than sit in the inspection line just once.
This unique experience used to take place every year, but now it’s every two years, because it takes approximately that long to forget the humiliation, the aggravation, and the loss of self-esteem one encounters while dealing with this state appointed mandatory emasculation. This fun day is brought to you by the friendly folks at the DMV (Motto: “We’re rude, because we can be.”).
The first thing to remember is never go for inspection at the beginning or end of the month. Procrastinators, who wait until the last day of the month, will find themselves sitting in a line that has been known to stretch into Pennsylvania. Those smart alecks going on the first day of the month will only find themselves joined by other smart alecks thinking that they, too, were going to beat the crowds.
The best thing to do is wait until the middle of the month, park your car overnight at the entrance and wait until they open up in the morning. Bring the kids along and tell them you’re in line for Springsteen tickets. In reality, it doesn’t matter when you go, because there is always going to be someone in line ahead of you. Probably someone who has been there since the Roosevelt Administration. (Teddy, that is.)
There will usually be three lines open for inspection. Never, repeat, never ever get into the shortest line. It’s a trap. You may think that you’ll get through quicker, but it’s because that line hasn’t moved since 1959. You’ll find yourself waiting, while the other two lines move along at an almost rapid pace. This is because you are in a line where the inspectors are formal postal employees who failed target practice. If you find yourself in this lane, you might as well sit still, because nobody in the faster lanes are going to let you squeeze into their lane without first separating your heart from your chest with a staple remover.
If, and when, you do make it to the front of the line, you’ll be required to surrender your drivers license, registration, proof of insurance and K-Mart credit card to the first of three inspectors. This is a true waste of time, because this guy is so stoned from breathing in carbon monoxide all day, he’d probably pass you if you handed him three proofs of purchase from Cap’n Crunch.
He will then pass you down to the next inspector, probably a woman who could have played defensive tackle for the XFL. She’ll ask you to step from your car while she tests the brakes. This is done by her flooring the accelerator pedal to the speed of seven or eight hundred miles per hour and stomping on the brake pedal about twenty feet away. (NOTE: Not a good idea to have groceries in the trunk at this time.)
When she emerges from your vehicle, you may want to insure your vehicle passing by complimenting her on how her mustache is much thicker than Gene Shallit’s.
The last stop on your little journey is to pull up to a booth, at the end of the building, where you’ll find a gentleman who looks like he should have put in his retirement papers sometime around the creation of sand. His job is to scrape the old sticker off your windshield, read the inspection card the other two inspectors hole-punched and determine whether or not you passed. He then glues the appropriate new sticker to your windshield. He does this with the speed of a snail on benzodiazepene. (Note: Be careful before speeding off. He has been known to glue his necktie to your windshield by mistake.)
As you make your exit, you realize that it wasn’t that bad of an experience after all. And, if worse comes to worse, you still have twenty-four months to find a state where vehicle inspection stations have been replaced with Home Depots.
Author: Matt N. Daugherty