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Find yer polling place

After going to the wrong polling place and being yelled at by the suspender-wearing poll worker (something about “Get off my lawn!” or “Get out of my polling place!”), I discovered the correct facility. A block away. Instead of voting at the elementary school auditorium, which smelled of urine, I voted at the senior center auditorium, which smelled of urine.

I signed my name in the book and the spiky-haired poll worker yelled, “We need a Libertarian ballot over here!” Some time passed and as I waited, I looked around for the voting booths. There were no electronic machines or even Kentucky-style lever-pull machines. A paper ballot was handed to me and I was waved away from the “Rep” and “Dem” signs. I was taken to a dinky table with an “Other” sign over it and then the poll worker vanished.

Knowing I would brand myself mentally incompetent, thus unable to vote, I weighed the risk of admitting to a different poll worker that I had no earthly idea how to work their voting rig. A heavily pierced poll worker noticed my inactivity and asked what was the matter. “No hablo ingles”, said I, and he showed me how to slide the paper into the inking stand. The Libertarian voters had to use the same multicolored, multi-page “voting book” as the “Other” voters, but were only supposed to vote on the white and orange pages. No, it’s not very intuitive. When I finished, I was directed to place my paper in the “ballot box”.

Student government elections in high school weren’t this retro.

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