Not to be a Mulder, but there's a government conspiracy to yank my driver's license.

Eleven years of driving in Missouri, four traffic tickets.

One year of driving in Florida, three traffic tickets.

Coincidence? I don't think so.

See, Floridians have a thing about outsiders. It's pretty much: "Come, stay in our motels. Drink our orange juice. Pay our sales tax. But don't, and we repeat, DON'T move here."

To emphasize the point, state government used to have what was called an impact fee. Basically, if you wanted to get Florida license plates -- required by law three months after you move here -- you had to pay the state $600. The fee later was rendered unconstitutional and the state had to refund all the money.

Lawmakers then started twirling their handlebar mustaches and shouting, "Curses, foiled again!"

But The Other Half and I moved here anyway, unable to resist the lure of year-round mildew and fleas the size of softballs.

Now, I'm convinced, the government is working to get move-ins back to their home states. They're passing out lists of our vehicle descriptions and tag numbers to members of the Florida Highway Patrol. Our license plates have tracking devices hidden in the crevices. And we're being targeted.

I got my new tags in May of last year and had my first speeding ticket in July. I'm not ashamed to say I blubbered like a newborn infant, but to no avail. The trooper just threw the ticket into my car and ran, frightened at the sight of a 260-pound, red-faced woman with mascara running onto her cheeks.

The next one was in November. I was driving the speed limit but a very similar car -- I kid you not -- flew past me. The trooper caught me instead of the true lawbreaker and delivered his little rehearsed speech.

"It's my job to keep this stretch of highway safe for drivers, and you are compromising that safety by your speeding," he said.

I mean, get a LIFE! "Sir, I wasn't speeding," I said. "I've been really paying attention to my speed since I had to go to driver's education school because of my last ticket."

"You can appear in traffic court," he offered.

"See you there," I said.

Then I started reading the information on the back of the ticket. If you go to court and lose, you'll pay up to $500 instead of the $100 ticket. And whose word do you think they're going to take? I paid the ticket.

The latest run-in was last month, when I was driving on wet pavement and allegedly ran a red light.

"If I'd slammed on my brakes, I'd have caused an accident," I told the trooper.

"You can appear in traffic court," he offered.

Yeah. Thanks.

I am now the safest driver in the universe. I count to three at stop signs. I brake for GREEN lights, for heaven's sake. I drive at two or three miles per hour below the speed limit.

It doesn't matter. They've got my number. And they're going to collect my $600 impact fee, one way or another.

P.S. This week's Idjit Award goes to a sales clerk in a local outlet mall. Mr. Half used his credit card to buy a shirt. The clerk looked at the signature on the card, looked at the signature on the receipt and looked at Mr. Half. She repeated the process three or four times and finally asked, "Are you this person?"

"Yes," Mr. Half replied. She put his purchases in the bag.

Wow, with top-rate security measures like that, no thief could be successful in her store.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.