My brother’s birthday was September 6, and he happens to be a fan of the movie Talladega Nights. What did I do? I ordered license plates for his car that say “SHK N BK”, which, if you’ve seen the movie, you’ll realize is a cool thing to have—provided you’re a teenaged dude who’s into going fast, possibly breaking the law from time to time, and watching mindlessly hilarious movies. Perfect present, in my opinion, and he’s been excited for them ever since he got the word that they’re on their way.

Trouble is, I ordered the damn things on August 16. Sure, I thought, they might be a few days—weeks, even—late given that we’re dealing with a governmental body here, and a rather crappy one to boot if I may so opine. No biggie. It’s the thought that counts anyway. I eventually got word that they shipped out of Springfield—the one in Illinois that’s a 3-hour drive from Chicago—on September 12. No biggie. Two weeks late max. I’m golden.

Trouble is, I found out this morning that it sometimes takes up to 30 days for them to arrive. From Springfield. Illinois. I received antibodies this morning that were shipped from California on Monday night. 36 hours. Okay, whatever. No biggie. 30 days isn’t so big a deal as long as I get them.

Trouble is, according to my calculations, it’s been well over 30 days. Of course, I bring this up to the woman on the other end of the line as well, who is merely a string of completely unpleasant and overtly rude employees working for the Secretary of State here in the great broke state of Illinois with whom I’ve dealt during this debacle. After she performs some calculations of her own, she informs me that, “Yes, 30 days is a long time, sir, but we cannot be sure that they have been lost in the mail until we have waited 50 days after shipment for them to be returned to us, at which point we will re-press and re-ship them.”

Trouble is, 50 days is like 10 more days from now, according to my calculations, at which point I will inevitably have to deal with these mean people again, re-order the plates, and wait another 14 years to get the new ones. And no, I can’t cancel the order and have my $126.25 for two pieces of painted metal refunded to me. Ever. Even if they haven’t arrived 14 years and one week from now.

In the meantime, my brother is neither shaking nor baking, and it saddens him. If he ain’t first, he’s last, after all. What saddens him more is that he doesn’t have a front plate at the moment, and he’ll probably be getting more than a few tickets for it over the next decade and a half.