Your Government Tax Dollars at Work

Richard received a letter from the Social Security Administration the other day. They wanted to raise his Medicare premium based on his 2008 income tax return.
"But we're unemployed! How can they do that?" I kept reading. He can dispute the amount if he had a life changing event. I read the list. My eyes focused in on number 5, work reduction and number 6, work stoppage. Hallelujiah!
I gathered all my proof, set the GPS in the car to the address for the local SSA office and told Richard to get in.
"You have arrived at your destination." said the woman in the GPS.
We parked at the end of a row far from the other cars. An old rusty, missing it's bumper, baby blue pick up truck parked covering three spaces far from the building. He wanted to make sure no one would hit his prized possession. I was right there with him after perusing the other cars in the lot.
At the front door, we walked directly into the side of a large, 5 foot tall black box and rows of folding metal chairs mostly filled with people. When we walked past the front of the box to find a seat, we noticed it contained a computer and a sign that said "Sign In". The touch screen computer listed five numbers each with a description. I touched the appropriate number and ten feet away on a desk, a number spit out of a machine. I retrieved it. It seemed like an awful lot of technology and energy for producing a number. The little green paper ones at the deli would work just as well.
Sitting at the desk was a security guard. Carrying a gun. Just in case a fight broke out over the numbers. We giggled to ourselves as we watched all the newcomers walk past the ominous black box never noticing the computer inside.
Finally our number was called. A plexiglass window with a small opening separated us from the clerk who was going to help us.
"Write your social security number on the number slip," she barked at us.
"Are you going to shred this when we're done?" I asked.
"All paper is shredded at the end of the day." as I watched her toss the paper into an overflowing wastebasket. Well it's Richard's identity that will be stolen, not mine. I shrugged it off.
She read our letter and says she can't help us.
"We don't have jobs," Richard pleads with her finally deciding to get in on the experience.
"Well then let me check."
We wait and we wait and we wait.
"Where's the crematorium?" Richard asked.
"I have no idea. Are you dying soon?" I wanted to know.
"We have to save some money. Take me directly to the crematorium. Bypass the funeral home."
"What brought this up?" I'm curious now.
"Everybody here looks like death warmed over. This place kind of smells like it too."
He made a good point.
The clerk returned. "I filed a dispute for you. We'll send you a letter."
We said thank you and left. The baby blue pickup still hogged half the parking lot.
"He never figured out how to take a number. He's still waiting." I quipped.
"Boy is he going to be mad when he figures out he needs a number. Good thing that guard packs a gun."