So I went back to the DMV and they grudgingly gave me a new license plate. FInally.
In the line the man behind me was trying to strike up conversations with everyone else. His breath could have dropped a vulture and it hung like a green cloud around him as he yap yap yapped at the people around him, trying to find a friend.
"I work offshore...my mom's car broke down on the highway the other night...I got twins, nineteen year old girls...I tried to turn in a license plate I found in the street one time..."
Constant, stinking yammering. Delightful. Doesn't everyone know you're not supposed to make eye contact in places like that, much less strike up conversation?
So I finally get to sit down with someone who works there. I tell her that I've already called the bank and they were going to fax a copy of the title directly to the DMV.
She disappears for a while, then comes back with the copy of the title.
"You're going to need to get them to fax this to us again," she says, "I can't read the numbers."
"What numbers?" I ask.
"All of them."
So then I gave her this magnificent sheaf of crap I had in my glove compartment. Eventually she found what she needed (after making multiple copies and watching Clerks with her buddies) and gave me a license plate.
I paid handsomely, too. On the upside, I don't have to deal with those people for another two years.
I conclude with a picture of the unholy offspring of Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton.