Strike One, Strike Two...

The DMV sucks. I don't even need to tell anyone that. It is a given. Sort of like Starr Jones DID have gastric bypass, the Grand Canyon IS a big hole in the ground and Courtney Love DOES need to fall into it. It makes sense. I have been in Washington State for 2 years now, almost to the day, moving from Idaho. I still had my Idaho license. It expires in 2011 so I didn't see the need to get a WA license right away. Unless I got pulled over, which I did not long ago for going 65 in a 55 miles per hour construction zone with an Idaho license, Washington plates, and Washington registration, which I couldn't find, nor could I find the proof of insurance. But that is another story. The DMV sucks.

I went down there at 6:45AM this morning, Saturday. My wife had told me that when she got there at 7:15 the previous Saturday, she was 6th in line. I figured at 6:45, I would be first. I was wrong. I turned out to be 9th, which I think I should have gotten a participant ribbon for, similar to placing 9th out of 10 in a race. Yay...here is your ribbon, thanks for playing. The DMV opens at 8:30AM. I had time to kill. The guy next to me was a cool guy so we passed the time talking about how life sucks standing in line at the DMV, SPEAKING ENGLISH, while others are carrying on a conversation in a dialect I am not familiar with, but if I were I could be employed in just about any place in this stupid town. Sidetracked...sorry. Doors open. I had a utility bill, my social security card, my old license, me, keys, phone, a dead pheasant, a goose decoy (headless), some moccasins, and a rabbit's foot key chain. I figured with all this shit I should have no problem getting my license. I was number 001. SWEET! Guy at the counter, extremely happy his heart is beating, asks for three forms of identification. I gave him my old license, my social security card and the utility bill. He needs one more.

Strike one....

I asked him what I needed. Birth certificate, he says. I help up the dead pheasant. He shook his head. He said no to the decoy, the moccasins (that had my initials on them) and the decoy that said BRACK on it. Shit. He said go get something from list B (which none of the shit I trucked in there was on the list....my bad) and come to the window. I left, drove home and got a copy of the birth certificate. I returned to his window, handed him the CERTIFICATE OF LIVE BIRTH (copy) and he said great, but it isn't certified. Shit. I told him it was. He said it could be forged. Right, because I give two shits about having this license. I don't even really want to be me. Why would I make ME up?

Strike two...

I asked him what else would suffice. He said a rabbit's foo....OK, he didn't say that. He said anything from list B which he then handed me a copy of what is acceptable from that list. A yearbook photo. I have one of those. He said if I can look at your photo and then recognize you, it will work. Jesus, that was 18 years ago. If I did look the same, I would need to see a doctor, or sell the secret to eternal youth. In which case, I would buy this building and tear it down with you in it. I ran home, found the ONE copy of a certified birth certificate, obtained in 1985 for Little League to prove I was, in fact, a 12-year old Caucasian and not a 31-year old defector from Guatemala. I returned, hoping to God it would work as it was now 9:30AM. It did. I had my photo taken. I now know why people take shitty DMV photos. Smile? re you kidding? The hoop jumping did me in Steven Welch, License Representative.

I hate you, Steven Welch, and hope you get ass-raped by a big, phucking grizzly. let me know if you smile after that......dick.