I Laugh at WMD's, but I Fear DMV

Hell holds no horror for me. I am a walking shell of a man. I went to the DMV today.

I hope when we catch Osama bin Laden, we make him register all the al Qaeda vehicles right here in Raleigh, North Carolina. I hope they televise it too. I’d love to see him break down when, after waiting for two hours to get through the glacially paced line, he’s told that the Form 12-A that he has reads Osama b. Laden although he signed his full name, and that he’ll need to get a new form from the dealer before he can register his vehicle.

And oh how I’d love to see him squirm in agony when he returns with a new Form 12-A (form names changed for national security reasons), and waits another two hours only to learn that his out of state title does not contain an embossed notary block and so cannot be used to register his vehicle.

Yes, I would wish DMV on my worst enemies, but no one else.

Our local office has a sign when you go in that says, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here” and they live up to that motto. DMV is full of sad looking people waiting in line to be denigrated by even sadder looking bureaudrones. The décor is colorless tile on the floor and crumpled zeroxed bulletins pinned with no care at all on the otherwise featureless walls. The back wall displays various license plates of obvious cheap construction that say things like “RETIRED” or “I Love Grandpa” or, and where are you ACLU, “God is My Co-Pilot.” Hello, you’re not a pilot, dumbass, you’re just registering your 1997 Crown Vic.

DMV is where demons go to die. The place is so depressing the employees make Dr. Kevorkian seem like an optimist. Your soul seeps away while you wait in DMV, and you die a little each time you go.

Today, I went to turn a tag in. I had sold a car a month or so ago, and every time I went by DMV the line was out the door. I don’t need to spend that much time around Mexicans unless I’m ordering a Lunch Special number 2, so I waited til the time was right and the line was relatively short.

When my time came, I handed the plate to the crusty old bat behind the counter and said, “I’d like to turn this plate in.” She typed it into the computer and said, “This shows an insurance lapse.” I said, “Well, I’ve sold the car and the new owner has insurance on it, I’m just bringing the old plate in.” She said, “We still consider this a valuable plate; you shouldn’t cancel the insurance on it until you turn it in.” I said, “It’s not on a vehicle, and I’m turning it in.” She said, “Well, you should keep insurance on it until after you turn it in.” I thought, “Look you high-school drop out nicotine encrusted shriveled idiot, it’s the car that needs to be insured, and it is and I don’t own it anymore. The plate doesn’t get into accidents. Cars get into accidents. I need insurance on the car to get the plate. I don’t need insurance on the plate. There’s no such thing, you single-digit IQ, living rebuttal to Darwin. So just take the damn plate if you’re so worried about the danger it’s causing society.” But I said, “You know, that’s a great idea. But I just cancelled the insurance, since I had taken the plate off and was bringing it in.” I swear, she repeated her advice again.

And she wasn’t done with me. She said, “Well, looks like Wake County is looking for its money.” I said, “What?” She said, “Taxes.” I said, “What taxes?” She said, “You pay property taxes, don’t you?” I thought, “I pay more income tax in a week than you earn in a year you bitchy-mouthed air-wasting exhibit for why cigarettes should be legal if they kill the smokers, and if I missed the $12.61 of property tax they charge on a 1971 Firebird Formula, what the fuck does that have to do with TURNING THIS PLATE IN??” But I said, “Ok, I’m sure they’ll send me a bill if I owe them something.”

Then she said, “I’m not sure this will print so I may not be able to help you.” If looks could kill, I would have been dead already because she was First Degree Ugly, but I managed to keep my expression neutral. Finally, she printed off some receipt I couldn’t care less about and I left.

I really hate buying and selling cars, all because of DMV. They’re waging their own war against global warming, just by making getting a car such a pain in the ass. They are also the best evidence that not everyone was created equal.

If I were elected president, I’d round up every DMV employee in the nation, load them on C-130’s, and drop them right on top of ole’ bin Laden. They’d be our best weapons in the war on terror, because nothing would stop al Qaeda like waiting in line at DMV. They may hate us because of our freedoms, but they would fear us because of our DMV.

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