You’d think I’d be excited, what with the National Holiday of Scott’s Birthday upon us once again! Crepe paper and balloons line the streets, parades and carnivals unite the town in song and dance, and the combination fireworks / laser-light show paints the horizon with a spectacle of colors only to be outdone the following year…yet a fog of sorrow has been cast over my special day – a haze of financial blight placed on my shoulders by none other than The Man himself…

Since I turned the ripe age of one, oh so long ago, my favorite part of the entire birthday experience has been the gift-transaction phase, during which you give me all sorts of neat stuff. Of course, there are always some not-so-cool gifts thrown into the mix, such as those glow-in-the-dark, hot tamale boxer shorts or the hand-painted mural of Rod Stewart that has hung over my bed for the last three years, but if nothing else, hey – they’re free! That’s the great thing about gifts – they’re right in my price range, and after I’ve received just about as many limited edition porcelain busts of Marilyn Monroe as I have room for, I can return them to my local superstore, whose customer service department is run by conveniently blank individuals who will accept just about anything for return, where I can then proceed to buy something I might actually want for my birthday. It’s certainly not as easy as cash, but my porcelain-bust-to-beer conversion system still remains a bit shaky and I think that’s all for the best…

I never thought that I’d be one to complain about the gifts that I receive because, as I explained above – FREE! FREE!! FREE!!! Nevertheless, I got a very special gift about a week ago which I would’ve simply loved to return…if only it hadn’t been against the law. It was a small parcel from some lady who called herself the Secretary of State, and can you believe this – she had the nerve to hit me up for money on my birthday. It was really a rather rude present, too – it didn’t even come with a nice card or anything, just a bill and an envelope, and of course, I also had to foot the postage back to her. Have I mentioned before that I really don’t understand women?

It has never made sense to me exactly why our state government has chosen to burden me with an extra bill to pay during my otherwise time of grand celebration – maybe they’re assuming that enough of my relatives will be giving me cash or something…they obviously don’t know my relatives! It seems like I just begin to get in the mood as my birth month of August rolls around the corner, then BAM!!! it hits me blindside and the party plans come to a screeching halt. I open up that familiar, legal-sized letter from the head secretary herself, hoping to maybe find a festive birthday greeting, my lost income tax refund from years back or possibly even a spicy love letter, but no – instead I get the following message:

YOUR VEHICLE REGISTRATION FOR 2002 IS SET TO EXPIRE ON YOUR MOST SACRED DAY OF JOY AND HAPPINESS.

SEND ME $50 IMMEDIATELY OR I WILL HAVE YOUR CAR IMPOUNDED AND SOLD FOR SCRAP. HAVE A NICE DAY!!!!

I’ve been hearing that quite a few innocent, fun-loving people such as myself have been receiving these types of letters lately, so I thought it would be interesting to do a little research to uncover exactly where my $50, and everybody else’s, actually goes. Then I thought, “Hey, a yummy bowl of ice cream would really hit the spot right now…” and pretty much blew off the whole research idea altogether in favor of my preferred method for gathering information – making it all up as I go along. The results I found were nonetheless shocking…

After amounting hideous amounts of concern as to where our vehicle registration money is actually going, I decided that the first place to look would be right outside my own front door. This was actually a rather easy one, as I do live in Michigan (motto: Proudly sporting equal numbers of deer, orange barrels and pissed-off drivers…), so I can guarantee that my birthday money from Aunt Ginger isn’t getting put back into the roads and highways of this fair state! Unless they’re pouring the dough directly into a discount purchase program to build up our dangerously low barrel surplus (MDOT slogan: A barrel for every man, woman and child…two if we’ve got enough to go around!), any trip down I-75 will make it painstakingly clear that it’s going somewhere entirely different.

No, I believe that our money, in the spirit of nearly every government-backed agency, is more or less being flushed down the proverbial toilet of modern day politics. Follow me on this one – when was the last time that you had to take a trip to your local Department of Motor Vehicles or Secretary of State’s Office for us rural folk? Well, you know that extra large woman standing behind the counter who refuses to wait on you until your number comes up, even if you’re the only person in the stinkin’ place? For the purpose of this column, we’ll call her Bertha. Now I don’t particularly like Bertha and I’m guessing that you don’t, either – hell, let’s be honest: she’s mean, she smells a little funny and her general purpose at the DMV is to make your visit as unpleasant as humanly possible! Granted, I’m sure she’s got a dazzling personality underneath the whole She-Hulk exterior, but that’s another story altogether…

Ever wonder what exactly Bertha’s job at the DMV actually is? Well, besides making personal phone calls and taking frequent breaks, her main job is to take our money and put it someplace where we’ll never see it again…I’m thinking her own pocket at this point. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not suggesting that Bertha steals our money as much as I’m saying that the DMV is stealing our money and pissing it away on, well, Bertha! It’s the whole supply and demand theory, inverted for politics: we pay Bertha our hard-earned cash, which then is actually paid to Bertha for collecting said money in the first place. What’s wrong with this picture???

“But Scott, what about the Highway Patrol and Rest Area Maintenance and That Guy Who’s Always Begging for a Ride Near the Freeway On-Ramp? Don’t they get to see some of this money???” Sadly, no – every dime of your vehicle’s registration goes directly into the staffing costs of cranky women like Bertha…how in the world am I supposed to know?!?!?!? Supporting this particular theory, though – what happens to all of the money collected from taxes, traffic violations, taxes, new driver’s licenses, taxes, those delicious pancake breakfasts and spaghetti dinners, and did I mention taxes? I won’t even get started on my beef with the IRS, but I do think that we’ve simply got way too many government jobs where the only purpose is to collect money for their own wages, so why not just stand out in front of the grocery store with a bell if you’re just looking for an easy way to make a buck off of John and Jane Doe…

This does, however, have a positive outlook to it as well, as now I have a goal for next year – I’m going to start building my own roads. They’ll never be maintained properly and probably be full of potholes, but you won’t find a single orange barrel on any of my roads – just one big CAUTION sign at each end! Everyone will drive way too fast and there will be lots of accidents because of a lack of law enforcement…just like it is right now. The only major difference will be that you certainly won’t have to worry about vehicle registration on my roads – maybe we’ll send out actual birthday cards instead! Keep in mind that this is just phase one of the development of my yet-to-be-titled new country – many great things will come!

I’ll get started as soon as my parade’s over…