One of my Internet buddies recently finished, at long last, the restoration of a Honda CA-77. You may know it by its more popular name: the 305 Dream.

He finally got through with what he had always incorrectly considered "the hard part," which was five years of sweat and busted knuckles, hundreds of dollars in phone bills and thousands in Honda parts. Now he was ready to get it titled. Unfortunately he didn't have the original title because the original owner had lost it about thirty years prior, and as most of you know, titles never come back after three years.

"No problem," he thought, "I've got a bill of sale!"

"Wrong! Think again you puny, ignorant, heathen, savage motorist you! For I am a mighty DMV Clerk! Bwah-hah-hah-hahhhh!"

Well, maybe his courteous and helpful (cough, hack!) DMV maiden didn't use those exact words, but she might just as well have. As you may have guessed, there was no title for Dream Boy. Been there, done that, bought a tag. Or rather, I tried to. I had taken the long, wrong way around the barn. My daddy could have saved our Dreamer friend a whole lotta trouble, as he once did for me. Several years ago I made the twin mistakes of thinking I could handle things by myself and walking into a South Carolina DMV office without the warm companionship of large caliber sidearm...

"Pooh! I'll just do it myself!" ... which was not really a problem.

"And I'll do it my way, the right way!" ... which certainly was.

... A big one.

During the early Reagan years I was stationed at Travis AFB near San Francisco, California. I'd saved up my small but steady $125.00 a week and bought a clean BMW 2002 automobile. California loves BMWs and I would soon find the extent of that love. Insurance in the Golden State was almost $400.00 per year, then came the taxes! Well, that explained the "Golden" part; you needed lots of precious metal to afford driving there. Paying Liberace's dry-cleaning bills would have been cheaper than California taxes on a six-year old German car. While on summer leave I decided to take the advice I was given and have the BMW registered in my home state. I had been told that this is a courtesy that all states bestow upon us, their uniformed guardians of democracy. The law was meant to keep members of the military from being financially penalized for having fulfilled their patriotic duties, which always resulted in their relocation, sometimes to high-cost areas of the world. So with justice behind me I strolled trustingly toward the DMV office here in Greenwood, South Carolina. I employ the word "trustingly" here only because I'm not sure how to spell "naively."

Remember what it's like to give blood? It's a sinking feeling that comes from knowing that no matter how heavily good fortune should smile upon you that day, the best you're gonna get from the whole fiasco is a large, blunt needle, a queasy feeling in your stomach and a considerable loss of blood. Now there's my idea of a fun day! Well, it seems to me that all trips to the Department of Motor Vehicles have a funny way of ending up just like this, and I think it may even be worse here in South Carolina. As some of you may know, we once lost a major war and many of our number can't seem to put it behind them. Historically it's been men that fought the wars, but I once met the bearer of a new name worthy to be put in that same hat, one who thrives on conflict. Brothers and sisters, she was NOT in the habit of losing confrontations, for she was...

... Xena, Warrior DMV Clerk!

There was a song in my heart as I entered the DMV office for I was still young enough to think that the guys in the white hats always win against the foul forces of malevolence. I was in for the shock of a lifetime. As the heavy glass door that I had bought with my tax money closed slowly behind me, I was immediately aware of an evil presence. I looked toward a row of burning torches that lined the aisle. Oh no, it was her! It was Xena, the DMV Warrior Clerk!

I was taken aback by her majestic bearing and formidable scowl. Her steel breastplate shone in the fluorescent luminance of her office home as the citizenry, one by one, bowed in her presence. The few whose motor vehicle paperwork gained Xena's favor were asked to kneel before her, whereupon they were given a gentle tap on each shoulder by her Gotterdammerungian sword. I glanced fretfully at my considerable paperwork but was little comforted... the last three commoners who approached her had been unceremoniously beheaded on the altar before her place at the DMV counter. I hoped against hope that I might chance to draw one of the other clerks on duty there, but it was not to be... Xena looked up with steely blue eyes and gave the war cry that still chills my bones whenever I remember it...

"NEXT!"

I genuflected and approached, slow of gait with head bowed low. Xena asked the questions and I began throwing answers at a fevered pace. Unlike my many other visits to this forsaken hall of torture, this trip should have been a piece of cake for I had my impressive pile of paperwork in sparkling good order. Besides that, the solemn strength of the United States Air Force and the Federal Government were allied with me in this endeavor, and with Uncle Sam and the Gipper both on my side who could possibly stand against me? My bubble of hope began to deflate when she got to the question that read:

"South Carolina Vehicle Inspection Sticker number?"

But I was ready for that one and I had a really good excuse...

"Not required, oh Venerable Mistress of Pain. For you see, I am in the military and am currently stationed in the great state of California, which lies far across the land beyond the Great River. I'm simply registering my car here in my home state, and there is no vehicle inspection law in California."

At that time I'm pretty sure I heard the following:

"Silence oaf! Take your hideously wretched body and go sleep with the bones of your ancestors. You must have a South Carolina Inspection number, for I am Xena of DMV! Bwah-hah-hahhhhh!"

What had I said? Perhaps I had thoughtlessly impugned the righteousness of the omniscient, omnipotent South Carolina State Worker. I became more certain of my fate as she threateningly chanted the following...

"You are doomed, oh Miniscule Minstrel of Mirth. For you are now in my neck of the swamp and will do as I have bidden, you knuckle draggin', gravy suckin' hillbilly!"

Who was she talkin' to? And how did she know so much about what I'd had for breakfast? But alas! It was she who had the Official Form, and she who wielded the Almighty Pen. I felt gelded and powerless before her. I noticed that hers was an official State of South Carolina Pen and I was pretty sure it contained Sacred Ink. I realized that I had underestimated a fearsome opponent and gotten in way over my head! I tried plying her with logic by offering this for her consideration...

"Oh, but Mighty Intransigent One... Even as I grovel, service men and women all over this great nation are accomplishing the very thing which I now request. All who are on active duty military service are free to register their vehicle in their home state. The law of the land lies firmly in my camp!"

You don't actually think she could hear any of this, do you? Her head was busy going side to side in the International Symbol of Rejection. I was sinking fast. I twisted free of the arresting palace guards, quickly donned my cloak to change my appearance, then made my escape right under the noses of the wretched sentries. There were far too many to fight my way out so I kept my wits and fled in order that I may fight another day. Besides, if attrition were my only goal then I'd done well, for my escape surely meant that that those guards' heads would roll before sundown. The tired and huddled masses who seemed to live in the line behind me had long ago resigned themselves to rot where they stood. Getting tags from Xena was going to be bloody battle, and so far it was all looking like my blood! The local citizenry had at first cheered me onward as their champion, but now they had failure and empty resignation writ large upon their faces. Though they had supported me passionately, I had suffered initial defeat. Failure at the DMV!

Back at home, daddy asked my if I'd gotten my tags yet. I told him about my unfortunate episode and he began to change colors. The more he thought of it the more it got under his skin. Finally he told me to saddle up wearing complete battle regalia... and with Full Paperwork! We were returning to the scene of conflict, and this time we were gonna charge the ramparts!

"Uh-oh..."

All the way back to town I tried to stop him. I told daddy that having no inspection sticker number there was no way we were gonna get tags. Xena had me dead to rights and nothin' was gonna make her give in. Daddy was unmoved. His foreboding glare reflected off the windshield as he steeled himself for the clash ahead. The Supreme Goddess was about to meet the Unstoppable Hillbilly and there was nothin' I could do to prevent the bloodshed.

We entered the DMV shrine and breathed the stale air as we walked among the bones of those vanquished warriors with whom I'd stood in line earlier that day. The few of them still alive instantly recognized me and were heartened that I'd dared to return, this time with reinforcements! They rallied sufficient strength to smile up at us as we walked that gory gauntlet. For the second time in a day I found myself standing in the line of sorrow, awaiting my meeting with destiny. As fate would have it, after standing for 45 minutes we ended up getting the SAME STINKIN' CLERK! Now I ask you, what are the odds of that? I was wondering how many years daddy was gonna get for what he was gonna do if Xena were to start into that side-to-side head shaking routine again. My brother Roger was the last to try it back in the winter of '61. We got him some new pants and the skin finally grew back almost good as new. The counter cleared and we were up next; I was feeling like an accessory to an impending crime. Daddy stood firm, I looked for comfort...

"Now I lay me down to sleep..."

Xena went straight into her routine without so much as batting an eye. And in case you're wonderin'... No, she had NOT forgotten me! She also was privy to the fact that my car was almost 3,000 miles away and that I could not possibly have gotten an inspection sticker for it within the last two hours. She never let on and I think that was because she was so much looking forward to the part where she would get to turn me down... again!

I began to sweat profusely as I answered her dizzying array of questions, watching Xena's hand coldly caress the grip of her sword. We continued down her interrogation list. This time she was not bothered with looking up as she asked the questions and filled in the blanks. I answered all her queries just like before, all the while dreading that inevitable one. Then I thought I saw the whites of Xena's eyes begin to glow an eerie red as they narrowed to tiny slits. At that point I noticed the sudden, crushing silence of my comrades who were laid low in the queue behind me. When Xena's low, guttural growl reverberated threateningly through the rafters, they all knew what was about to take place, having seen the carnage countless times past. Again she made her demand, this time with a notably ominous echo as she spoke ever so slowly...

"South Carolina Vehicle Inspection Sticker Number!"

Those frozen corridors rang out with her stentorian declaration. I wasn't sure what the strategy was supposed to be but I knew I didn't have one. Suddenly I became a witness to the very epitome of poker-faced one-upsmanship. DMV workers can smell fear and they like it, but Xena was caught off-guard by the fact that there seemed to be no fear in daddy. That one moment of indecision was all it took. My daddy was about to teach me how you get things done down here in the lower right-hand corner of the United States of America.

For five years of his life during that mid-century unpleasantness he'd crawled around under live machine gun fire; there wasn't anything Xena was packin' down at the DMV that was gonna come anywhere near to shakin' him up... being stuck on your belly in the mud will do that for you. Many of these guys are still living, and the ones who have been shot at in the name of nationalistic sport don't sweat the small stuff. And for them, anything gentler than 50-caliber automatic weapon fire is all small stuff.

I needn't have worried because daddy was the man who had the plan, and a marvelous one it was. Before I could stutter out a bluffing answer to Xena's inspection sticker inquisition, daddy leaned over the counter, looked the now smitten DMV Warrior Clerk-princess straight in the eye, locked in his fiery, white-hot gaze and said loudly and with a noticeably impatient sneer:

"A-B-C 1-2-3!"

That hall of war-weary veterans was stunned into silence, in awe of a power they had never imagined. It was only then that I began to fully understand what I'd just witnessed. Daddy was John Wayne, I was Ira Hayes and the formidable counter before us was that desolate hill on Iwo Jima! Xena was suddenly out of place; stuck in the wrong century and huntin' Grizzly with a flyswat! The Stars and Stripes were now waving proudly and her aura of Supreme Power was fading fast! She was now merely a DMV chick-with-a-sword. Xena didn't stand a chance against the Duke!

Finding herself suddenly powerless, a terror-stricken Xena froze in her place. Her sword returned to its uncloaked state; it was only a letter opener! She quickly reverted to the flaccid public servant she had been before the Forces of Evil had gained control of her mind and faculties. She gasped weakly, whimpered once and almost choked on her carbonated Diet Mead. Then she coughed up my doggone tags.

Xena was vanquished!

A round of riotous cheers exploded from those bedraggled souls who had been stuck in the line behind us. All were newly filled with the hope of survival, seeing as how malevolence had at long last been eternally banished from their land. Someone snuffed out the foul-smelling torches that had previously lit the way to the DMV Creature's place of slaughter. Once again it was good to be alive. It was good to have tags too!

Now, all of you get down to your local DMV and make 'em get busy! And remember, daddy can make house calls if you need him...