“We gon’ to da bank… better getcha popcorn ready!”
So, my parents live in what is essentially Buttfuck, Pennsylvania, and I have a bank account with these deadbeats that run an office in downtown Buttfuck, the city that always sleeps. So this area is so happening that the local branch (2 miles from my parent’s house of disorganization and elbow macaroni) closed down for good. This has left many, many 80 yr old widows without a banking office that they can roll their undead carcasses to and do their banking. What the bank did was transfer all accounts to the office that is up by the mall (like 6 miles away) and let me tell you something… I have been in that place twice and had a bad experience on both occasions.
The first experience was a few years ago when I tried to cash a check there. They fought with me for 15 minutes, going back and forth between tellers, saying i did not have an account with their banking system. Listen, slapnuts, if I have an account at a different branch of yours, it should still fucking show up. I eventually left, swearing at some bitch, I think.
The second experience came today. Like I said, my usual bank branch-office is now closed, and I had to go up there and deposit money, which I did not want to do, because I hate those niggaz. I go in there, apprehensively, and approach some middle-aged woman (the only people who work in banks) and immediately I am 100 percent defeated because everyone working their was celebrating Steeler Day. The Steelers are playing the Ravens tonight on Monday Night Football. I am looking forward to seeing the asshole, obnoxious Steeler fans at the game while Mike Tirico saws my head apart with his jerkoff voice and idiocy. Maybe I’ll get lucky and Theisman will show up and prove just how smart he really is. Anyways… so, yeah, I hate Steeler fans so bad I want to pull my own brainstem out, they are the only fans on Earth of any team in any sport who call national radio shows and brow-beat the hosts with garbage about how Roethlisberger and Hines Ward are the best players in the NFL. I cannot take this anymore. And today, there they were, decked out for Steeler Day, kicking my ass like Koko B. Ware versus The Undertaker or some shit.
Back on track.
I go up to this woman, I think she was wearing a Hines Ward jersey, and I told her, “I was at the St. Michael office, they told me this is where my account was transferred.” She gives me the most clueless look. I repeat: “They closed the office in St. Michael and this is where I was told to do my banking.” “Oh.” So then she looks at me very suspiciously, and I tell her I want to deposit money. She asks what my name is. I tell her. She asks how to spell my last name. I tell her. She is frozen over the paper with the pen in her hand. The elderly mouse in her giant, retarded head is trying desperately to find the energy to turn the wheel in her skull. Finally I have to fucking repeat it again. My name is pretty simple, folks. I guess when you have a “Y” that could be an “I” in some circles, you really need to concentrate on what you write down. So she does all that and then I tell her: “This card is getting pretty banged-up, can I order a new one?” She is stunned by this. She takes the card and flips it over and over in her hand, holding it up to the light. At this point, my head is down and I am biting my lip. She then proceeds to tell me that she cannot do this task, and that I have to go to the next teller, who i guess has spell debit-card ordering training that she herself was not equipped with. This other woman, also middle aged and clueless, gives me a very beaten-down look and is thoroughly put-out by me asking her to order me a new card.
You know how long it took? About 4 seconds. She typed in my name and clicked the mouse maybe 4 times, and then told me it would be there in a week. I saluted her like she was a great admiral, and I walked out of the madness.
Then I get home and get the mail. I receive a letter from the credit card company that my bank uses to issue credit cards sponsored by my bank. The letter says to call this number because there is “missing or unverifiable information in my application”. I figure what the hell, maybe it is worthwhile to fins out what I messed up, for future reference. The first call goes to an adult service for chatting. I’m fucking serious. So I call again and this time some old woman answers the phone and tells me she is putting me through to the credit department. Well, I guess the credit department was the big black button on the receiver, because she hung the fuck up. So I call back and get a younger woman on the phone and here’s our convo:
Now I am on the phone with Ralph. He is about 60 yrs old, breathes into the phone, sounds like what I would guess a rapist would sound like as he breathes into your ear while violating your bathing-suit area. I shouldn’t say that, he was actually on the ball and nice. You wanna know what the problem was? I sent in 2 applications to 2 different credit cards and this basically melted the computer system. So he gave me the very, very fast rundown of both cards, and asked me to pick one. “Missing or unverifiable information” turned out to be “oh, I didn’t know which card you wanted.”
Welcome to hell.
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- The Cambria County War Memorial.
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