CapitalOne.
My friends, my neighbors, my most persistent pimps of hyperextended finance: Get a fucking clue, will you?
After going through a rough patch a number of years ago, and getting sucked into the black hole that is maxed out credit cards, I recently managed to climb completely out of the morass that is multi-hundred dollar minimum monthly payments. All the cards: paid off. All the cards: cancelled, mostly due to a goodly number of late payments (after a while I just couldn’t care a lot anymore). Everything: gone, over, done with. Blessed relief. Positive cash flow. Growing bank account. Life was good (or better, at any rate).
Who, then, should come sniffing at my door like a neighborhood tom discovering the new kitty hasn’t had her operation yet and is pining for some fjording?
CapitalOne.
Nice people that they are (“ONLY the BEST” says their envelope), they offered to help me rebuild my credit by offering me a (gasp) credit card!! True, the interest rate was fairly high, but still…it was damned thoughtful of them, given what I’d just been through. After all, they’d PRE-APPROVED me, so all I had to do was send in the invitation letting them know I’d accepted. I had to regretfully decline, however. Having only recently managed to survive just that minefield, I thought it better to stay out of debt in the first place than allow myself to indulge in the slippery slope that had already once undone me. Into the trash it went.
But CapitalOne knew that it was temporary insanity which led me down such a path. They knew I needed their help. They knew I was lost in the wilderness and would only perish if they didn’t lead me out to safety and prosperity. Accordingly, a few weeks after the first gracious invitation had been so ungratefully ignored, they sent another.
“We know you didn’t mean it,” they seemed to say. “You were hurt. You thought no-one could help. Oprah was just someone on TV. But we are HERE for you! Let us help! We’ve already PRE-APPROVED you, so there’s no problem there, right?” This interest rate was slightly lower.
Did I learn? Did I see the light? Alas, I was in the place of darkness, and the second angel of balance transfers was likewise unceremoniously discarded.
So they sent another. “No, really,” the third one was no more brusque than the first. Gentle, patient, firm. “We’re really here for you. Owe us money. It’ll make you feel better, we promise. We’ve even made sure to PRE-APPROVE you, so you don’t have to worry about being creditworthy. We already think you are! Isn’t that great?” Obstinate in my newfound financial freedom, I refused to heed their kind words. The wastebasket retired well-fed that night.
“Look, we’ll lower our interest rate a bit,” came the next communication a few weeks later, “surely that will lift the cloud from your brow and allow you to see The Light. We can feel your suffering, and only wish to ease it. Let us shoulder your burden, just for a little while. Did we mention that you’re PRE-APPROVED? Just in case you were worried about being good enough for us and all: DON’T. We’ve already checked into that for you.”
My wastebasket was once again full-bellied and happy.
"How’s about we just drop the interest altogether for a few months, so you can try us ABSOLUTELY FREE??? We’ve already PRE-APPROVED you, so there need be no concern on your part over creditworthiness. All taken care of, you bet. Surely you can see the sense in THAT? " they wanted to know the next month. I couldn’t. Can wastebaskets gain weight? I was starting to notice a slight bulge about its middle.
“Ah,” came the next one, “we think we know what the problem is. Sometimes things get lost in the mail, you know; so it’s likely the previous half-dozen or so letters from us never made it to you. For your convenience, we will send them all to you again, in order to make sure you don’t miss out on our fantastic offer (as we’re certain you would desire were you to actually communicate said desires to us). Watch your mailbox. We really do want to help…PRE-APPROVED!!! Thank you.”
[Memo to Self: Buy StairMaster for wastebasket.]
…And so on, and so on. For two freaking YEARS these cat-fjorders have been badgering me to get one of their stupid cards. Every month or so like clockwork on a clock you mostly remember to wind, there’s been another one. I’m really starting to wish I had saved them all: I could have material for a harassment suit.
Finally, I caved. Yes, I’m not proud of it, but I’d had enough. Reasoning that if I actually HAD one of their cards, they would quit trying to push one on me, I send in the PRE-APPROVED invitation. I just wanted them to STOP. So I sent it in. 13.9% APR.
They turned me down.
After two dozen of these damned things cluttering my mailbox, they turned me down!
Their reasons:
Missed and/or late payments (which I kind of expected).
No large outstanding debt (so I’ve got MONEY, you bozos!)
No balances to transfer (so I’m not already in debt to someone else, so I’VE GOT MONEY, YOU BOZOS!!!)
I wept. Well, actually, I think I had a good laugh, fed the morbidly obese trash receptacle one last time, and watched some TV. Thank Dowjones that’s over, my brain muttered through a That '70’s Show rerun.
But it wasn’t.
Today, I got ANOTHER one from them. Same patter: balance transfers, no interest until 11/2003, PRE-APPROVED, blah-blah-blah. This one is the lowest interest rate yet (9.9%!).
AAUUGGH, my aching cerebrum!! They’ve pestered me for two years about this, beating me into submission through sheer force of mass mailings, then they TURN ME DOWN, and NOW THEY’VE LOWERED THE *INTEREST RATE???*WHAT THE HELL IS THAT??? Are they rubbing my face in rejection? Are they senile? What’s in Their Wallet, short-term memory loss?
That’s it. To CapitalOne, if you’re reading, I offer the following advice::
Either send me a fucking card or shut your piehole. Put up or shut up. Otherwise, I’m ripping out my mailbox. From now on, I shall only be reachable via dowsing. Let’s see if YOU can get Randi’s million.
Wankers.
The mind boggles. You plunk down an opening deposit, they open your account. What’s so hard about that?