Vote or die, or not

So today was election day. I usually enjoy election day; there is a sort of electricity in the air as people exercise their rights in the democratic fashion. Today, the feeling was less electric than it was "on-the-lookout-waiting-for-someone-to-commit-voter-fraud-without-having-any-reasonable-cause-for-concern" tension.

As previously noted, my family and I recently moved, so we had to switch voting districts. We all did so in a timely fashion, and so voting should not have been a problem. If I were telling this story outloud, the "should" in the preceding sentence would have been accompanied by a raising of the eyebrows and possibly a lean forward for emphasis on what was expected. However, the people (and lets face it, we could probably call them geriatrics or octegenarians or really, really, old folks) who facilitate the voting process are like the Barney Fife of the Board of Elections. For those of you not familiar with the Andy Griffith's deputy, his gun was not loaded and he was only allowed to carry a bullet in his pocket, because he was so eager to arrest and shoot people. The polling place workers have obviously been trained to within an inch of their lives to be on the lookout for fraud, and by golly they were going to find it. When my father presented his driver's license, which still has the old address on it, the woman wanted additional proof that he lived in the new district. This he did not have, and a small skirmish insued. But the real battle was waiting in line behind my father.

When I got up to the table, the woman asked for my driver's license, which has the new address on it. She complimented me several times on how it was good of me to have my new address while she signed me in as my mother, who is in fact right above me on the list of eligible voters but who also happened to have already voted by absentee ballot. So when it came time for me to sign in, I of course signed in as myself. When she read the signature she said "Wait....why didn't you sign your real name? Who are you?" The error was then discovered, but rather than shift the blame on the incompetent numbnut nearsighted old cow, they decided to accuse me of "shenanigans". After a few more minutes and a little yelling, I was finally allowed to vote, but I am absolutely certain that one of the old bats "accidentally" shredded my ballot for use as kitty litter.