It’s a shame it had to come to this folks. It’s a shame that going to 20 cent wing night has resulted in eternal damnation for so many god damn people, but I’m afraid that I have no choice.
First, ERIKA, FROM BW-3. May you be forever tormented by pieces of popcorn stuck between every tooth in your face, you idiot, gran-mal fuckbag. You are not fit to put pizza menus on doorknobs much less wait tables. It’s not really hard. I give you a debit card for an amount. I FILL IN THE GENEROUS FUCKING TIP BECAUSE YOU’RE A FRIEND OF A FRIEND, (a 25% tip in this instance) and instead of entering $50 as my final total…somehow, your cro-magnon mind entered it as $122.00. ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY TWO. I’m looking at a key board right now and there’s no way that’s a fingerslip.
You are the kernel of my torment, and I hope you don’t mind if I cut your nose off the next time I see you. Why? Because of a simple mistake? No. Because your simple mistake made me have to deal with:
THE LADY AT BANK ONE.
You. You borderline sentient Christ-shaming She Bastard. I couldn’t hate you more if you had put staples into my corneas. In Pleasantville this process would have been so fucking simple and could have been done OVER AND GOD DAMN DONE a month ago.
I SPENT $50
I WAS CHARGED $122
PLEASE REPLACE MY ACCOUNT WITH THE ERRANT $72
Simple enough? It’s not like I’m presenting it in Rebus form.
I received a letter from Bank One a week ago informing me it was taken care of, that in a Rube Goldberg move of idiocy, instead of just giving me the difference they were going to give me $122 and then take out $50
Of course, you’re Bank One, so imagine my complete INSURPRISE when I find you’ve taken $72 instead.
Then, in 10 minutes of Who’s On First I have to convince you sixteen times that the $122 was NOT what I should have been charged, that 122 -72 IS indeed $50, but that means nothing to this conversation, that I spent fifty, not seventy two and that YOU are a senseless marmoset of stupidity.
And once we’re through with the numbers game, you begin to try and assign blame elsewhere, you suggest the following in this order:
That I’m reading the number wrong
That my account doesn’t exist, even though we’re both looking at it at the same time.
That I actually spent $47, even though there is no record anywhere that I did, and a number like that couldn’t fit into this equation if we had a shoehorn.
Then you take a few fucking moments to tell me that I should have kept the reciept because it would have been easier. Well, you know, life would be easier if I could still have an umbilical cord and wear diapers, but things don’t always work out. You know what I’m saying? I don’t have the fucking reciept because two weeks ago I was assured this problem was solved. I don’t save everything in some Templeton cave in the junk yard. When I’m done with a receipt for chicken wings, I throw it the hell away.
Then, when I try to refer you back to the credit dispute about this very issue from only TWO WEEKS AGO, you inform me that Bank One keeps no records of those things. KEEPS NO RECORDS? This a place that charges me a fee to rathole a quarter up my ass for gum, and you’re telling me there’s no record? EAT MY HOLE, BITCH. There is a record, since I received three letters about this stupid, fucking thing. Or does the biggest bank in chicago just do everything on an IBM typewriter from 1981 and then throw the ribbon away?
During this time I actually heard you utter “Perhaps you don’t knowwhat you’re talking about,” and “why don’t you look at that number again calmly and read it to me.” GUESS WHAT? I do know what I’m talking about and I READ THE RIGHT NUMBER. Is it so hard for you to admit that your Bank FUCKED UP? I mean Jesus Mary and Joseph with all the angels in heaven, it’s $22 I’m asking for…just give it to me and get back to sitting on your thumb.
Then, after thirty god damn minutes, you inform me that you don’t really normaly deal with debit card issues, so it may take longer to resolve. Can you transfer me and release me from your harpy talons? I ask politely.
NO, HONEY. CALM DOWN AND I’LL TAKE CARE OF IT BY FRIDAY.
don’t you ever call me honey
take care of it right the fuck now, as it has been THREE WEEKS
and forever burn in hell with the maggot encrusted dick of Benito Mussolini crammed up your airtight asshole while Judas Iscariot shoves marinated cauliflower up your leathery old bacon strip of a twat.
Don’t FUCK with me when my back hurts.