14 July 2004

Sit Ubu Sit, Good Dog (whoof!)

I'm gonna go to sleep
And let this wash all over me
We don't really want a monster taking over
Tip toeing, tying down
We don't want the loonies takin' over
Tip toeing, tying down our arms

Maybe I made a mistake. I'm psyched, always will be, but I mean, well. So in order to apply for a bloody visa you have to jump through some hoops. For Italy, apparently, if you're breathing, you're good to go (it doesn't hurt if you have huge knockers and are a floozey (wtf, what am i talking about?)). That is, as long as you have your passport. But the UK, the good ol' bloody U to the K -ster. Well they only want my unborn children, but you know what, that can't have em, not one I tell you! Well, maybe the ugly one, with down syndrome, but that's it! No others! Ok, they can have the one with the helmet and knee pads, I guess it can be a compromise. But seriously, I have to have paperwork out my patootey in order to get this piece of paper: the letter I've yet to receive, copies of my passport (doesnt end there), and bank records. That's right, the UK wants to know how much money, I am going to spend in there lil ol' country. Hey, dumbasses, I'm a student, I'm POOR! I am going to drop 26,000 pounds sterling in Scotland per year. Is that enough to be allowed in?
As for the passport, oi, to even think of the hoops, flaming ones, BIG flamers, oi. Not only do I need copies, but they have to be certified copies (wtf does that mean?). Apparently I have to endeavor to make the perfect copy, ie. a.)you have to be able to see the picture and 2.)you have to be able to read off the information and make fun of the picture. The fun continues as you go to get the copies notarized (stamped with a funny stamp that embosses them followed by signed and witnessed, go figure because these pictures might look like me, but they're really not, just trying to play a big trick on ya). So now you have what looks like a really professionally done Kinko's job, you have job security in being able to master any copy machine. Oh crap, I forgot, YOU'RE NOT DONE. Noooow you have to go to the federal building and get Uncle Sam, you know the uncle I'm talking about, the one that molests little children and taxpayers, and ask him real nice-like while rubbing his chest to rubberstamp your little piece of paper. OI.
Color me Ubu and stick me on a production label. Don't get me wrong, I know things aren't a walk in the park, but I really hate being unlazy.

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