One of the problems of living in a city that has a Baghdad-style body count is that bad things occasionally happen to your car. This week, someone stole my back license plates. (They probably tried to steal the front as well, but those were bolted on wrench-tight.  Sucks to be you, jobless delinquents!) I checked the DMV web site to see what I had to do, and their instructions were clear:

“If only one plate is stolen, you must surrender the other plate to the DMV.”

That ticked me off.  Not the concept--just the wording.  I didn’t want to “surrender” anything.  How about finding the people who stole my license plate and tell them to surrender?  “SURRENDER GREG’S PLATE THEN COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP.” I was the victim; I didn’t want to surrender. My main girl Dorothy and I take a stand on these kinds of things.

But when I went to the DMV with my completed application for new plates, the guy looked up at me and “You also need to surrender your remaining plates.”

I’ll say this about the DMV: they are consistent. When even the employees speak the same language as the forms, you know you have a well-run system.  A horrible carnival of anguish and pain, but nonetheless well run.  Hell with fluorescent lighting.

Still, for the cost of a little bit of wasted time plus twenty bucks, I received brand-new plates.  And the upside is that my new plates are much easier to remember. They are an agreeable combination of numbers and letters.  I have a theory that if you say them sequentially and very fast, they sound very much like an old Sumerian nickname that basically means “Hunter gatherer with substantial and intimidating forearms.” I am not going to research this just in case I’m wrong.