How to vote absentee: A True Story

Trust the yak, rock the vote.

I may not be the “cool guy” for saying it, but you should vote. I mean, honestly, I’m not going to win any “popularity contests” here; nobody is going to call me “awesome” and “handsome” for talking about the presidential election. Heck, I can’t imagine anyone coming up to me and saying “Hey, you’re my best friend,” or “Let’s hang out.” I can’t imagine anyone saying that to me at all!

I’m sorry, I seem to have gotten a bit off track. My point is that the election is coming up, and you should vote. If you’re a Connecticut voter, then all you have to do is go to a place at a time and fill out a paper, and you’re set, you lucky duck. I, however, am trapped in the past and wish I were a child — so I registered in my home state. (To protect my state’s identity, I will refer to it only as “Massahcusetts” — a clever anagram of its real [secret] name.) This is the procedure for procuring an absentee ballot from my state, taken directly from the ancient scrolls in the basement of the state capital:

  1. Prove your identity! How do we know you’re really from here? First, we will need a DNA sample — a piece of hair, some blood, a superfluous organ (appendix, tonsil, etc.). A team of warlocks will verify your residency by listening to the rhythms of your sample (for this reason, a more massive, fluid-heavy organ is preferred). They will then be able to pinpoint the location of your origin. This process may take up to 200 years. Please be patient.

  2. Prove your age. A simple birth certificate will do. If you do not have one, you will need to repeat the process with the warlocks. They are a testy bunch.

  3. Await delivery of your ballot. I’m sorry, that was a mistake — we have no way of getting a small piece of paper to you in a timely manner. If only there were some nationwide service that would specialize in that sort of task. No, you need to come get it yourself. The state will provide you with one (1) yak, equipped with a saddle and three-days provisions. The yak, who is over 10,000 years old, knows the way to your hometown. Trust the yak. Also the yak can speak. You may converse with the yak. The yak will take you as far as a woodland glade. You will arrive in this glade midnight of the second night. Follow Polaris for 10 leagues. At this point you will meet an old man, stooped and near death. He will take you the rest of the way in his Chevy.

  4. Pick up your ballot at the election office. Don’t take too long though. The old man in the Chevy is out in the parking lot. He will start honking the horn. You should get back to the car — he’s double parked and holding up traffic.

  5. Return by way of old man/yak. Can’t vote in your hometown, otherwise what’s the point of even getting an absentee ballot?

  6. Vote!

  7. Ensure the delivery of your ballot. If you trust the yak, he’ll do it for you.

So now you see why voting sucks. I guess if I’m trying to make one point here, it’s this: don’t vote. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the quest begins.

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