Garda Garda Garda

I spent the morning at the ZOO that is the Irish Immigration Office. It was a complete madhouse- something I would liken to Ellis Island in the 18th century- Ellis Island with mobile phones.
I followed the multilingual crowd over to the funny little box that prints out your number- it wasn't working. Enter disgruntled employee; "THIS way Miss." Number 479. What number were they on? #143. For fucks sake. Two cups of coffee and one trashy magazine later, #269. As the clock ticked I watched random children screaming at the top of their lungs, pulling on my jeans, and spilling my coffee, I wondered when it was exactly that parents lost all control? One little charmer picked his nose and tried to wipe it on my brown sweater-- I promptly moved my seat. I sat down next to a pleasant looking young woman. "What number you?" Pardon? She handed me a peice of paper- Wonka's Golden Ticket- #346. THANKYOU THANKYOU THANKYOU! Less than 100 to go.
At this point the youngsters have taken the place over. About a half dozen monsters have formed a body pile on the floor and continuously naw on eachother like lion cubs(whoever buys that creation bullshit should spend an afternoon in an Immigration office). I actually saw one little girl lick the floor-- hoof and mouth disease, I thought to myself. Enjoy.
The keeper of two of these children picked them and drag them over to the bench next to me; I smiled politely as her son pinched my leg and her daughter tried to go through my purse.
"Where are you from?"
The States.
"I'm from Nigeria."
Ah yes, I've always wanted to go to Africa.
"Are you married?"
No, not married.
"You should marry my brother. Marry an African."
No, I have a boyfriend, thanks.
"You come to Nigeria, eat good meaty food, you and my brother move to the States."
#300. The matchmaker disappears leaving me with Pincher and the Klepto. A little boy nearby has hijacked a stroller and is running over my feet along with everyone elses... again. And again. HEY! KNOCK IT OFF! Where the fcuk are his parents? Surely a kid too young for complete sentences should not be given a stroller. The Matchmaker returns and collects her kids, so I move again. A Middle Eastern gentleman soon sits next to me.
"Are you married?"
Yes, as a matter of fact I am.
#346!
THANK GOD.