The Redneck "Car" Club

The question I was asking myself in the never ending Disneyworld ride of a DMV line the other day was posed before me by John Mayer. I looked around the line in anguish and wondered, "Why, Georgia? Why?!?"

My escapade with this all began with my ticket (sidenote: F#%$ the Police!) which has forced me into doing a variety of annoying tasks in order to obtain GA registration, title, and license. By the way you can not get any of these items all in one place. No, no, no, no, no ... it takes multiple phone calls, internet checking and a gathering of a variety of items to be accepted by the Great State of Georgia.

Once you gather these items you must wait in line at the DMV to get a number. Once you get a number you must wait in another line for that number to be called. The process to get to this point took me a long time, but I was not deterred. I wanted to be a true Southerner. I wanted to say y'all with a little more twang in my voice and finally be accepted by all the Georgia peach girls and guys.

Unfortunately, just like any good club Georgia had to make it harder than just waiting in line. You see my number was finally called (F519!! They need letters and numbers because there are so many people in line) and right when I get to the desk the lady tells me the computer is broken and she will have to wait until it is fixed. She then writes my number on a piece of paper under what looks like 10 other numbers. I sulk back to my seat accepting defeat and continue to wait because I have no other choice.

Finally, a counter clerk sees me disintegrating from boredom (FACT: There is not one good looking person to stare at within the DMV complex) and takes pity on me. She calls me up to get a new number for my next line. I wait in line here to take my picture where despite my obvious frustrations with lines and crying babies throughout the facility I manage a smirk for the camera. I then wait in line for them to deliver me my new Georgia lisence. I am thrilled to say the least.

I receive the piece of plastic I have waited from 11:30 to 2:00 for and at first I am appalled by what I see. I had not shaved in a while so I have a full beard, which along with a reddish tint to the camera made me look like a true country blood sunburned redneck. That smirk I thought looked real suave now looks like my name is Billy Bob and I either just kissed my cousin Thelma Lou or found one biggum piece of roadkill that would be one 'ell of a sight for dinner. It looks like I would be the guy that could be too drunk to fish or if I saw a sign that said "Say No To Crack," I'd pull up my jeans. But, after staring at my card for a while I began to embrace the sight and am gosh darn tootin' thrilled to get 'er done at the honky tonks and bars and have 'dem sweet georgia peaches tell me with a wink, "You jawja boys are some of the nicest, most respectful southern fellers I's ever met."

Sidestory: I got my car fixed on Buford Highway to pass emissions and the mechanic gave me his number in case the light came back on. When I asked for his name he said, "It's José ... thats H-O-S-E, right?" I died laughing ... I felt bad, but to make it up to him if anyone needs any maintenance work done my essa Hose can get it done real cheap and fast. He doesn't know much english, but a wrench, screwdriver and some duct tape only speak one language.