You ever notice how, in the grand scheme of things, there’s a button for everything? Need to call someone? Press a button. Need to make toast? Press a button. Need to launch a nuke? Guess what—press a button. Yeah, the world’s gone mad, folks. We’ve taken the human element out of everything and reduced it to one simple, brainless, idiot-proof action: pressing a goddamn button.
So let me tell you about a guy who found himself at the mercy of one of these button-pushers. Our hero—we’ll call him Joe, because why not—was just trying to do what all good, obedient citizens do: navigate the labyrinth of modern bureaucracy to get something simple done. Now, Joe wasn’t asking for the moon here. He didn’t need a kidney transplant or a quick escape from federal prison. No, Joe just needed to renew his driver’s license, a task so mundane, so utterly routine, it should’ve been easier than breathing.
But as you’ve probably guessed, this is the 21st century we’re living in, and nothing is ever that simple.
Joe walks into the DMV—Department of Motor Vehicles, or as I like to call it, the place where time goes to die. You know the drill: you grab a ticket, sit down in a plastic chair that looks like it was designed by a sadist, and wait for your number to be called. So Joe, ticket in hand, sits down and waits. And waits. And waits some more. Finally, after what feels like the entire reign of the Roman Empire has passed, his number flashes on the screen. It’s go-time.
He approaches the counter and is greeted by a woman whose expression could only be described as “terminal boredom.” Let’s call her Brenda, because, well, why not? Brenda’s the kind of person who was probably hired to press buttons all day because the idea of doing anything more complicated—like thinking—would be too much to ask. She doesn’t look up from her screen as Joe hands over his paperwork.
“Need to renew my license,” Joe says, trying to keep the tone light, maybe even hopeful.
Brenda doesn’t respond. She just takes the papers, squints at the screen, and then… yup, you guessed it… presses a button. But here’s the thing: Brenda isn’t just pressing any old button. Oh no, she’s pressing the wrong button. The button she’s pressing isn’t the nice, friendly “renew” button. It’s the “cancel everything and send this poor bastard into bureaucratic hell” button.
But here’s the kicker: Brenda doesn’t know that. In fact, Brenda doesn’t know much of anything. She’s been pressing buttons for so long that she’s forgotten that these buttons actually do stuff. In Brenda’s mind, pressing a button is like swatting a fly—an unconscious reflex, no thought required.
Joe, of course, has no idea what’s just happened. He’s thinking, “Great, the ball’s rolling now. Won’t be long before I’m out of here and back to normal life.” Ah, Joe, you sweet, innocent fool.
Brenda finally looks up, hands Joe his papers back, and says, “You’ll get something in the mail.” And that’s it. She’s done. She’s like a robot, programmed to press buttons and dispense vague promises. Joe doesn’t ask any questions. He doesn’t want to rock the boat. Hell, he’s just happy to be getting out of there without causing a scene.
But days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. Joe’s mailbox remains as empty as a politician’s promise. Finally, he decides to call the DMV. Now, calling the DMV is like trying to get a straight answer from your teenager—frustrating, futile, and likely to end in a headache. After navigating through a maze of automated menus designed by Satan himself, Joe finally reaches a real human being.
“Uh, yeah, I’m calling about my driver’s license renewal? I was told I’d get something in the mail, but it’s been a while.”
There’s a pause. Then a voice, dripping with apathy, says, “Let me check.” And Joe can hear the faint sound of… you guessed it… buttons being pressed. There’s another pause. Then the voice comes back: “Looks like your application was canceled.”
“Canceled?” Joe’s voice cracks, and suddenly he’s twelve years old again, asking why Santa didn’t bring him that bike. “How was it canceled? I didn’t cancel anything.”
“Well, according to our records, it was canceled. You’ll have to come in and start the process over.”
Joe’s vision starts to blur. His heart rate spikes. “I have to what?!”
“Come in and start the process over. We can’t fix it over the phone. Sorry for the inconvenience.”
Inconvenience? That’s like calling the Titanic sinking a minor boating accident. Joe’s head is spinning. His palms are sweaty. His world is collapsing.
But there’s no arguing with the voice. The voice is final. The voice is cold. The voice is unyielding. And so, Joe does the only thing he can do. He makes another appointment, takes another day off work, and heads back to the DMV, where the cycle begins anew.
This time, Joe is determined not to let history repeat itself. He watches Brenda like a hawk, ready to pounce at the first sign of button-pushing malpractice. He hands over his paperwork with a look that says, “Don’t you dare screw this up.”
Brenda, of course, doesn’t notice. She’s too busy staring at her screen, her finger hovering dangerously over the buttons. Joe can see the sweat forming on her brow. She’s clearly overwhelmed by the sheer responsibility of it all. And then… she presses a button.
Joe holds his breath.
Brenda looks up, hands Joe his papers, and says the same words as before: “You’ll get something in the mail.”
But Joe’s not falling for it this time. “What did you just press?” he demands.
Brenda blinks. “The renew button,” she says, but there’s something in her eyes—a flicker of doubt, maybe? Joe isn’t convinced, but what can he do? The system’s opaque, impenetrable.
So he waits. And, miraculously, a few days later, something arrives in the mail. But it’s not his new driver’s license. Oh no, that would be too easy. Instead, it’s a letter informing him that due to a clerical error, his application has been lost. He’ll need to come back to the DMV to start the process over—again.
At this point, Joe is beyond frustration. He’s entered a new realm, a realm where anger gives way to resignation, and resignation gives way to a kind of dark, bitter humor. He laughs when he reads the letter. He laughs so hard that he almost cries.
Because here’s the thing: Joe’s not alone. There are thousands—maybe millions—of people like him, trapped in the same bureaucratic purgatory, victims of the same button-pushing, error-prone system. And the worst part? It’s not even personal. It’s just the way things are. In a world where the lazy and the stupid are paid to push buttons, everyone’s a potential casualty.
So the next time you find yourself at the mercy of some button-pushing bureaucrat, just remember Joe’s story. And when that moment comes, when the clerk’s finger hovers over the button that could send you into a black hole of bureaucratic incompetence, just smile and remind yourself: in this world, a glitch in time saves nine—nine more days of your life lost to the abyss.
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