I finally got around to going to the DMV. My license was set to expire right after I got to Scotland, so, not wanting to deal with the bullshit, I went down and waited all 12 hours to renew my license before I left. This costs i dunno, 25 bucks or something, whatever though.

Prior to this, I had one of the old-school laminated paper licenses, the kind that everyone has, because they are the easiest to make with a photocopier and some Saran Wrap. Yeah, so I'm not used to this whole plastic card with a barcode deal they do now -- a license with security features to me is about as foreign as a gay man in Wyoming. Nonetheless, I got the new one. Despite my begging and explaining (multiple times) that I was going out of the country, the cold-hearted bitches at the DMV provided me with one of the 'under-21' cards, where everything is sideways and there are multiple notes stating that the person on the card is under 21.

Gee, thanks.

Whatever though, it didn't matter that much -- I only needed to be 18 to get shitfaced in the UK, so everything was covered. Of course, when I got back, the issues started.

Its not that people didn't believe my story, per-se, its just that they are required by a law (which was, by the way, written by a guy who was drunk) to stare blankly at my ID for 20 minutes to a half hour before finally making the decision on whether or not my birthday was really four months ago. All of that, of course, happens after they take the time out to notice my blatantly 'under-21' license and give me that "you're fucking kidding me, right" look.

So I go down to the DMV to get it changed, this costs me $11 -- $11 more than it cost everyone else my age to get a fucking beer, thank you again, cold-hearted DMV bitches, I still hate you. Of course, at least where I am from, I also had to bring along with me the following: 1 Passport, 1 Birth Certificate, 2 Credit Cards, a Voter Registration card, my Grandmother's marriage certificate, 12 Kellogs Proof-of-Purchases and the associated "Betty Crocker Points," and 6 drops of virgin goat's blood.

So once all of that was verified, I was then forced to listen to a middle-aged woman, who was understandably suffering from the pains caused by her atrophying vagina and the aches of premature grouchiness, give me a lecture about her boss being killed by a drunk driver and why kids shouldn't go to bars. Thanks, toots, but if my boss got hit by a drunk driver, I think I'd be buying the driver a beer. Anyway, she proceeds to mark up my paperwork to attempt to have my new license (that I am still at this point, intending to pay $11 for -- for the purpose of buying alcohol with greater expediency) marked as a "duplicate," which will at some bars set off the big old "red flag" that refuses entry.

Note that if I ever see this chick in a place that serves alcohol, I'm going to order 30 shots and then do them all (maybe with some help) at her table in rapid succession, before taking a 30 minute (one minute for every hour I waited in line) piss in her drink.

Anyway, I got that all sorted out, and yada yada yada, there's beer in my fridge.

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