I Hate the BMV!

So it turns out that my arch nemesis in the whole entire universe works at the BMV. Who would have thunk it? She's probably fifty-five years old, she looks like a librarian, and she is a total and completely unflinching asshole! I mean I have seen "lifers" on that show Lockup Raw that are more polite and more concerned with customer service than this old bitch!

I mean how frigging difficult is it to transfer my plates to a new car I bought? Or to change my name on my registration when I got married two years ago? Or how truly difficult was it to put my correct address on my driver's license? I mean, isn't that your job BMV Nazi? Isn't that what you deal with every stinking day of your miserable, hateful, worthless life? And how is it possible that without fail, every time I walk into that place, it is you that waits on me?!

I mean, should I just resign myself to driving the extra distance to go to another BMV just so I can avoid you? You know what?! No, I am not going to do that! I am going to go to the same BMV that I always go to! The one that is super close to my house. And the night before I know that I am going to make a trip to visit you, I am going to eat my fill of hard boiled eggs and drink beer until I pass out.

And when I walk through the door of that joint the following day, with my bowels poised to release the noxious gases they contain, I will stride directly up to you. I will offer my hand to you and you will think that I come in peace. What you won't realize is that the hand you are shaking spent the entire ride to the BMV scratching my bare butthole. And I will smile, and I will fart, and maybe I will even crap my pants right where I stand in front of you. I will touch everything that I can on your desk with my dirty butthole-smelling hands. And all the while, my soul will be smiling. . . and maybe even whistling a little.