Anyways, I went down to my local bank this morning, to order some more paper cheques and found it nearly impossible to even get the fucking time of day from them...
I know I probably could've done everything I needed to do via the standard teller, but I prefer to do ALL my in-person banking "concierge"-style with those people in ugly flannel suits and sit on their plush leather chairs drinking tea rather than stand in line at the fucking glass-windowed wickets like some degenerate riverboat gambler at the horse races...
When the 'financial specialist' finally got off the phone with her buddies and stopped chit-fucking-chatting with every one of her other co-workers that happened to walk by, I told her I only needed the new cheques and to give her a couple of signatures for some extra paperwork already done online for my options trading accounts.
But jst as her banker training hypnosis dictates her to do so, she INSISTED we have a look-see at my accounts so she could possibly help me with my investments...
So, upon bringing up all my accounts onto her computer screen, I had to roll my fucking eyes as she literally shit herself... Yes, that is a comma, the decimal point is over there...
"Oh I'm sorry, I was busy checking my Facebook, what were those mutual funds you were trying to sell me again??"
Suddenly, progress on those cheques.
Followed up by some grand scale asskissing...
Moral of story: Just because I opt to dress like some punk-kid skateboarder vagabond that just crawled out of a homeless man tent, doesn't necessarily mean I need your financial advice... plus your mutual funds suck dick.
Have we not learned anything at all from "Pretty Woman"??
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