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By Alan Linda

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Voter ID is quite the whoop-to-do [UPDATED]

Published 9:20am Tuesday, September 18, 2012 Updated 11:23am Tuesday, September 18, 2012

This whoop-to-do about voter ID didn’t mean much to me, up until this afternoon. Let’s face it: We walk in to vote hereabouts, say hello to our rural neighbors who are operating the voting center, shoot the breeze about how it’s so dry that the cows are giving powdered milk, pick up a ballot, vote, get a sticker, and that’s it.

Who needs an ID. Not us. Not here.

I guess, after reading a bit more about it, there are sides to whether or not we should have voter ID.

I guess in the George Bush era, they went after voter fraud in a big way and caught somewhere around eight people, half of whom were felons, the other half having been divorced and not having changed their names.

So I didn’t think it was too big a deal, until, like I say, this afternoon, when The Appliances called me down to the basement, all fussed up about something.

I asked Sir Nautilus the Water Heater what was going on. He’s quite educated, you know, and he said: “I think we should go back to having a King or Queen.” Being he’s related to England, I guess he would. He wasn’t much help.

But Lady Kenmore the Dryer had something to say. “Ever since I divorced General Electric the Washing Machine, I just knew it would come to this.”

Her vent pipe was puffing. You know she’s upset.

So, I asked her, come to what?

“Well, me not being able to vote, that’s what!” It’s not good to have Lady Kenmore upset, if you like your underwear unscorched.

Well, why can’t you vote?

“Because my name isn’t the same, you know that.” Oh, I guess I never thought about it. It used to be Lady Kenmore the Dryer-Washing Machine.”

Gosh, that was quite a name, hyphenated like that and all…

“Who are you to talk? At least, I don’t have a girl’s name for a last name …”

Okay, I said, I didn’t mean anything.

Then Mr. Williamson the Oil Furnace kicked in and said he wanted to move to Texas.

“That way, I won’t have any problem voting,” he said. He burned just a second, smoked a bit, then backfired. That was new.

Why won’t Texas care? I asked him.

“Well,” he snorted, “down there, all you need is a license to carry a concealed weapon.”

That would work, I suppose, I told him. They don’t let you vote, you can shoot your way in.

“Darned tooting,” he replied.

Of course, that might leave the elderly, packing heat on their old hips, out of it.

“Yeah!” he said. “Plus,” he laughed, “ that means not so many people voice their opinion about stuff they don’t know anything about, like immigration, taxing the wealthy, MediCare, and shooting people.”

General Electric the Washing Machine, who is retired and living out in the garage with John Dear the Riding Mower, chipped in right here and said: “Amen, brother!” Now I know why he wanted an address for The Tea Party, I guess. Contribute to the cause.

John Dear said, near as I can translate it: “Oh, ffffttttt!” Apparently he didn’t agree. “Next thing you know, they won’t let gay lawn mowers vote, either.” Hmmmm. That clears up any questions about his name. I was never quite certain.

I asked all of them exactly how they voted, being hooked up to pipes and tubes and ductwork and stuff.

It turns out they vote in Oregon. Apparently that’s the last state in the union where you can still get ID without going there, or so they say.

“See,” said Lady Kenmore, “Here’s my Oregon driver’s license.”

She handed it to me with her lid. Nice picture, I told her.

They want me to write a letter to my congressman, get this all straightened out.

I do that, I probably won’t be allowed to vote, either.