The DMV in God's country.

[askmrjesus]

Living in the mountains of North Carolina has it's advantages. Great roads, decent weather, good beer, and no neighbors.

The DVM situation, however, is not on that list.

My county is relatively poor. The DMV is a single wide trailer, with just one worker. It takes forever and a fucking day, just renew your license. Mine expired a few days ago.

When I got there yesterday, it was 1:47 pm. The sign out front dutifully reminded me I was not allowed to take a gun on the premises. I walked through the front door, to discover the waiting room, (technically it would have been the living room) filled with yokels. All ten of the cheap plastic chairs were filled with geezers, meth heads and other assorted fuckweasels.

Shit.

OK, fuck this. I grabbed a number off the hook on the wall, and headed to the library to check out a book to read while I waited. When I returned a half hour later, two chairs were open, so I sat down and cracked open "Basket Case", by Carl Hiaasen. So far, so good.

The geezer to my left couldn't stop talking about how he was going blind in one eye. Great, just what we need, geriatric blind people driving cars on the road. Somehow that conversation morphed into politics, (I don't know why we even need presidents and shit!) crime, (We should just shoot people who try to commit suicide!) and finally...motorcycles.

I tried to keep my cool at first, really I did. But "Frisky Kitty" had a really loud voice.

She was about 40, with shoulder length two-toned hair. She was decked out in what I can only assume were her "good" pink sweat pants. Her black t-shirt, with a cartoon cat, and the words FRISKY KITTY, did a poor job of concealing the fat that was trying to escape from the bottom of her shirt. It seemed as though her own body wanted to get out of that room as much as I did, but in a weird twist of fate, the fat and I had to wait until our numbers were called.

"Those motorcycles shouldn't be allowed on the road." She made squishing sounds when she talked. It sounded like she had a mouthful of wet toilet paper.

She continued on, "They don't have no protection".

When I looked up from my book, I noticed that the pig eyed troglodyte had only one tooth. She wasn't missing any teeth mind you, it was just that after years of swilling Mountain Dew, and an unfamiliarity with tooth brushes, her upper teeth had fused into a solid, slightly greenish, block of funk.

At this point, I realized that the sign about the guns was pretty smart, because all I wanted to do was blow a large caliber sized hole in her forehead, and watch while her blood pooled up on the dingy grey linoleum floor. Pity.

'"When they go splat on the road, they got nobody to blame but themselves, cause it's always they're own fault."

"REALLY?", I said way louder than I intended. "You don't think that maybe a lot of them get killed because inbred hillbilly retards can't bother to look where they're going?

I realized at once that I had maybe said too much, a bit too loudly. I was a pariah in the DMV waiting room.

Oh well, at least it was quiet after that, and I made it to chapter two in peace.

JC