And the West Virginia Department of Motor Vehicles (DMV) in particular.
I recently bought a new (to me) SUV, and today was my day to go down and get it's tags and put the title in my name.
First off, I went during a normal working day, so the office was chock full of teen moms with screaming kids and what looked to be about half of the population of Tijuana. In fact, between the caterwauling kids (whose moms all seemed to be too busy talking in their phones to pay any attention to them) and the "Gwaba, gwaba, gwaba..." of what sounded to me like illegal alienese, it was all I could do to hear my own number called, roughly an hour and a half after I walked into Kearneysville's version of the Mos Eisley Spaceport cantina.
Part of the problem. Deportations have been replaced with signs like this one:
Service was hardly what I'd call prompt, since the office has nine customer service (ha!) windows but only staffs three or four of them at any given time. But I finally got up there and had the privilege of giving over the cost of a decent rifle in the form of a 5% sales tax on my vehicle. Hell, for that much money, I'd better see one of those state-paid muppets show up at my house once a week to wash the damned thing! And what exactly do I get back from West Virginia in return for that shakedown again? And it doesn't even include the "personal property tax" that the county will be strong-arming out of me every year from now on for the same damned vehicle!
How many more years again until I can retire, move out west, and form my own little sovereign nation-states?
At least I got to finish The Road by Jack London while I waited. I recommend it, and it's free.