This guy.
And this guy.
Awesome. There is a lot of red paper clip-esque blog fame to be had in the world.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Lord of Drug
We are all familiar with my hate-hate relationship with Bank of America.
To avoid the bank fee for transferring funds, I made out a bunch of blank checks to keep in Colorado so that my parent's could, at a moment's notice, fill it out and deposit it in a local bank back in the Square State.
Well, upon my return to the Square State, lo and behold, this crappy little Diamond Shamrock in the middle of Junktown has a BOA ATM. There is not a Bank of America or ATM located within 740 miles, but for some reason in a gas station that had the syrupiest cokes of my high school days, an ATM stands.
This was great. I would have access to Charm City funds from Junktown.
One thing: I had forgotten the PIN.
So, I would go in and try a different combination each day for a week. I swear it had a 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and/or 9 in it...
Anyway, so I finally punched in the right one and made a withdrawal.
I swore I would never forget it.
Then, three days later, I couldn't remember it. So I caved and called BOA. To my surprise the lady was very nice and the whole process was rather pleasant. A little too pleasant...I want to be harassed when it comes to my PIN - not about bank fees.
I'm pretty sure the PIN they sent me and the PIN that I entered and successfully allowed me to access my cash are two different numbers. I can't bank on it, but it is an eerie feeling, nonetheless.
Anyhow, as of late, as in, the past two days, I've needed to transfer a massive amount of funds from BOA to Junktown Bank. The max withdrawal on the ATM was going to necessitate two separate days of cash deposit, and I needed instant availability, so I had to make the deposit face-to-face with a real teller at Junktown Bank.
The teller's name is Amy, she thinks brown and pink go together as well as yellow and gray, and that I'm a druglord.
What other explanation could there be for me making huge cash deposits and not looking her in the eye and sniffling a lot? Her finger was on the alarm button the whole time, despite my pleas with her to "Be cool baby, just, be, cool."
3 salient reasons I am obviously not a drug lord:
1) My dress: (less Miami Vice and more derelict)
2) My stature: (less 1991 Chris Rock and more 2003 Star Jones)
3) My insistence on saying "oh my gosh!" instead of "what the f***?"
I wrote the aforementioned tips on the back of a deposit slip.
Along with my pager number.
And the going rate for a kilo.
To avoid the bank fee for transferring funds, I made out a bunch of blank checks to keep in Colorado so that my parent's could, at a moment's notice, fill it out and deposit it in a local bank back in the Square State.
Well, upon my return to the Square State, lo and behold, this crappy little Diamond Shamrock in the middle of Junktown has a BOA ATM. There is not a Bank of America or ATM located within 740 miles, but for some reason in a gas station that had the syrupiest cokes of my high school days, an ATM stands.
This was great. I would have access to Charm City funds from Junktown.
One thing: I had forgotten the PIN.
So, I would go in and try a different combination each day for a week. I swear it had a 0, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, and/or 9 in it...
Anyway, so I finally punched in the right one and made a withdrawal.
I swore I would never forget it.
Then, three days later, I couldn't remember it. So I caved and called BOA. To my surprise the lady was very nice and the whole process was rather pleasant. A little too pleasant...I want to be harassed when it comes to my PIN - not about bank fees.
I'm pretty sure the PIN they sent me and the PIN that I entered and successfully allowed me to access my cash are two different numbers. I can't bank on it, but it is an eerie feeling, nonetheless.
Anyhow, as of late, as in, the past two days, I've needed to transfer a massive amount of funds from BOA to Junktown Bank. The max withdrawal on the ATM was going to necessitate two separate days of cash deposit, and I needed instant availability, so I had to make the deposit face-to-face with a real teller at Junktown Bank.
The teller's name is Amy, she thinks brown and pink go together as well as yellow and gray, and that I'm a druglord.
What other explanation could there be for me making huge cash deposits and not looking her in the eye and sniffling a lot? Her finger was on the alarm button the whole time, despite my pleas with her to "Be cool baby, just, be, cool."
3 salient reasons I am obviously not a drug lord:
1) My dress: (less Miami Vice and more derelict)
2) My stature: (less 1991 Chris Rock and more 2003 Star Jones)
3) My insistence on saying "oh my gosh!" instead of "what the f***?"
I wrote the aforementioned tips on the back of a deposit slip.
Along with my pager number.
And the going rate for a kilo.
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