One night last week after work I stopped by the DMV to renew my car’s registration and pay an absurd amount of money the yearly property tax in order to be able to drive legally, something that is kinda-sorta encouraged here in The ‘Tucky. Coming previously from a state that did not believe in penalizing ordinary citizens for having cars worth more than $4.00 and/or a goat, I have yet and likely will never adjust to having to pay this ridiculous crap. And worse, it involves going to the DMV, and we all know that my interactions with local government have been less than stellar.

Having the convenient hours of “open while you’re already at work, until right before you get off of work,” I was lucky to hit the DMV on the one day that they stay open an entire hour later. How those people manage to not lose their sanity. True heroes. Anyway, so as I entered the office I was quite pleased to notice that there were no other people waiting before me and only two parties being helped. At this moment in time, for one brief, fleeting second, I truly believed that I was going to get out of there in under 15 minutes.

I happily sat down on the oh-so-comfortable bench to wait my turn. I looked around and noticed that there was quite the staff of five able bodies working, yet upon further inspection realized that several job descriptions seemed rather vague, including one woman who’s job it appeared to be to scan documents like a mute zombie and not help anyone else (I want this job). Two clerks were serving the two parties ahead of me, and as I began to casually listen in on the conversations, I realized that I was in for it. Every hope I had for a normal interaction with my local government quickly went the way of the fannypack.

Party number one (consisting of a Bubba* and his Pappy) were attempting to transfer a car from one to the other, and as God hates me luck would have it, they got the one new clerk who had no idea what a keyboard was, how to use it, or any of the other fancy office equipment in front of her. This necessitated the aid of one and half other workers in the office, which as anyone knows triples the length of time it takes to do anything. Trust me, that’s how state-run things work. It’s a law or something.

Having lost all hope that party number one would leave before next Christmas, I quickly shifted attention to party number two, hoping for redemption. This guy was surprisingly normal looking, had all of his teeth and was not wearing any article of clothing that contained either the rebel flag or the Tazmanian Devil. This guy had promise.

But, yet again, my hopes fell sadly to the floor as the minutes clicked by. Fifteen minutes turned into thirty and then to forty-five. By now the waiting room was full. Some people had withered to skeletons. I was damned near unconscious by the time someone moved. See, the reason this guy took so dang long is not that the clerk was slow, had a hook for a hand or was even drunk. Nope. As it turns out, he was there to renew the registration on ALL of the following items: two cars, two jetskis, an RV, two tractors and a motorcycle (there’s probably a good chance they’re all parked on his front lawn, too). What was the final nail in the coffin was that every single piece of insurance information that he needed to present was wrong. Not one, not two, but THREE times, he had to use the phone to call his insurance office, re-read the policy number, tell them the corrections and then we would all then wait patiently, blinking at each other, while the office would fax the changes over. Each time, it was incorrect by one letter. I was so damned close to getting on the phone myself to scream at the agent to, I don’t know, WRITE THE NUMBER DOWN. That’ll teach him not to use Hilljack National for his insurance ever again.

Eventually I had to wake up from my nap to present my forms, a process that took (no joke) less than 60 seconds to complete. As I ran for both freedom and fresh air, I couldn’t help but be happy. Sure, I had wasted over an hour of my time in a soul-sucking office with nothing to read but a poster about MADD. But I saved two bucks by not mailing it in. That’s right, two entire dollars.

I sure know how to stick it to The Man.