BW-3, Bank One and the Fifty Dollars that will cost them their souls

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:


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.




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:

  1. That I’m reading the number wrong

  2. That my account doesn’t exist, even though we’re both looking at it at the same time.

  3. 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.


  1. don’t you ever call me honey

  2. take care of it right the fuck now, as it has been THREE WEEKS

  3. 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.

Someday I’ll rant about my issues with getting my Wedding pictures. Suffice it to say it makes your issue look like nothing. However let me chime in with an Amen, as I am sick of companies following this logic:

1.  There is a mistake.
2.  We are infallible.
3.  You screwed up.
4.  Any amount of proof you provide will not even cause us to consider the posibility that we screwed up.
5.  Stop bothering us with your mistake.
6.  We shall ignore you now, as you keep getting angry.

Am I getting it about right?


I especially liked


8/10 from the Canadian judge :smiley:


YOU are a senseless marmoset of stupidity

There is no end to my love for you, Jar.

10/10 from the United States judge.

Yet another virtuoso performance by jarbaby!



Senseless Marmoset of Stupidity = Band Name!

If I hadn’t been so angry, I’d have present my rant in exactly this form. And in fact, I was fairly calm until she called me Honey.


The worst part of that is that in the time it takes to get the $22.00 mistake taken care of, you could have earned twice that by picking up recyclable cans by the side of the freeway, and been a lot less stressed out.

Well ranted.

Did anyone else hear Lloyd Bridges say “it’s GO TIME!” when they read this line?

Jarbaby, I feel your pain. I run into the same kind of problems with Bank of America, aka Nationsbank, Satansbank, whatever it is now. The fun part is when they’re telling you that you have your account number incorrect while you’re looking at a copy of the statement that was mailed from them. Or maybe it’s when they tell you that although you deposited your paycheck from a local company (the state hospital, in my case) in the drive-through at 8:30 in the morning, it won’t clear for 5 days. (Regardless of the fact that I’ve been banking with them for 6 years now, and I’ve been depositing checks from this hospital for a year and a half.) Oh, and don’t bother to go into the bank to review your account with someone, because there is a $5 fee for each visit in the bank after the first visit of the month. ARRGH!

Damn…I have a morbid fascination with what would have resulted if she had called you “Sugar-Pie” instead.

Beautiful rant, BTW.

Banks suck - check

Great rant, 9/10.

Is this a Chicago thing? :stuck_out_tongue:

No, I think you can get gum just about anywhere.

I rather liked

But why not? There’s times when a rotten egg would sure come in handy.

This was a Charlotte’s Web reference, right?

This reminds me of my dealings with Qwest (there is a company that deserves a Pit thread and an attack by an army of radioactive monkeys). No matter how much logic is applied to the situation nothing gets done.rushtopher has got their business model nailed down.

Sheer artistry.

Nobody, but nobody, rants like you jarbaby.


How the hell do you blow forty bucks on $.20 wing night? Let’s see…

$50.00 tab minus $10.00 tip= 40.00 .20 per wing times (X) number of wings= $40.00
X= 200 wings!!!
Damned, J, you are one wing-eatin’ crazy person! There’d better be some booze on that tab, too.

Ha! Well, there were three of us, and yes, we had two beers a piece as well.

I never said I was ladylike and petite

I don’t even know you, but I have this mental image of the three of you sitting around the table, empty beer bottles and chicken bones littering a ten foot perimeter you. Hands, face, and shirt fronts covered in delicious red sauce. You go to sign the credit card receipt, and the pen keeps slipping out of your hands. :slight_smile:

Ahhh…good times!

BTW: OpalCat and I are getting together for $.50 asparagus spear night next week if anyone wants to join us!


We USE NAPKINS :biggrin:

:sighs wistfully:
Reminds me of the time some anonymous dipshit stole my PIN number at the Jewel, and when I checked my bank statement I found there had been a series of serious withdrawals totalling a couple hundred dollars. Trying to explain to the Bank One woman that I lived nowhere near the ATM address on the statement from whence the money came, and why the fuck would I be making two sizable withdrawals in the space of two minutes was an oratorical task of Sisyphean proportions.