53 F 4197.

It's finally happened.

This morning I awoke and smoked three rocks of crack to prepare myself for the horror of the BMV, where (supposedly) I was to be getting my title, registration and [gasp!] Indiana plates. I wasn't too optimistic; after all, it's been almost a year that I've been trying to get the Bloomington BMV to get my lien from Chase Manhattan so that they could transfer my title. Since that time, I've been living from one "Temporary Class C Permit" to another so that I wouldn't get raped up the goat-hole if I got pulled over. Ah, gross ineptitude. I remember vividly going to the BMV before they moved out to the willy-wags and waiting two hours to have some woman whose womanly charms would be most aptly summed up as "closely resembling Jabba the Hutt, but with more revealing clothing" and having her tell me that I smelled good. Yeah, I do, but I got the distinct impression that she was thinking more along the lines of "you'd smell better with a whisper of rosemary and some freshly pressed garlic." Anyway, I got to the BMV just behind a man who had three children whose very molecules vibrated; they were shrieking and pulling each other's hair and defecating in their drawers. One of the wee ones came startlingly close to me, but when he looked up, he thought better of pressing his sticky hands on me: in school cafeterias all over Indiana, my picture is emblazoned on the wall with a pithy warning about the "Mall Stomper." After he was told that he couldn't get what he wanted, he flicked his Nascar cap higher on his pointy head and told the BMV worker to eff himself, and that the "state of Indiana could sit on his {male member} and spin." I'm so happy those children have such a fantastic role model.

Anyway, I got the title, the registration and the plates. The price, of course, was two of my smaller toes, which the cheerful BMV hag severed with hedgeclippers. As I walked out to my car, I thought: my GOD. I have license plates for the corn. Nothing says "vague permanancy" like getting your car registered in that state. It was very final and surprisingly liberating. Of course, I couldn't tarry long, what with how I'd have to get the four little stumps on my feet cauterized.

I decided to treat myself by going to Big Lots, which is this strange low-price warehouse for budget goods. While I was entertaining myself in the toy aisle, I looked over at the plush toys, and among the bears and dolphins and horses I saw

A NAKED MOLE-RAT.

Naked mole-rats are rodents found only in Somalia, Ethiopia and Kenya, and yes, they are almost entirely naked. Weirder still, they live rather like bees, with only a "queen" bearing young. They roll in their own urine and feces. They are almost completely blind because they never see the light of day.

And there was a naked mole-rat plush toy. Not only was it a naked mole-rat, but it was wearing a baby-tee and khaki shorts and appeared to be in a "ninja attack" pose. I didn't think I could get it to the register quickly enough. I mean, what the hell?

And, best still, we got the house. It's going to be near Greenwood, Indiana, which is a satellite community of Indianapolis. Now, we all know how much I hate Indianapolis (I'd rather allow a five hundred pound woman who'd eaten Indian food squat on my face than go there), but this is a niiiiiiice place. All hardwood floors, fenced-in yard for Zeke, a fancy bathroom, and weird track lighting throughout.

It's been a great day. I'm off to rub ointment on my stumps and change the dressings; in this heat, gangrene sets in ninja-quick.

I remain, as ever,

Dom