Going To The Bank

Get a loaf of this (no way am I fixing that sweet typo): I had to go to the bank today. The bank. Like inside? The building?

I don’t think I’ve stepped foot in a bank since Stephen Hawking invented ATMs because who am I, Liberace or whatever with fancy financial things to do? Like I need a small business loan to start a cat combing company? (Note to self: !!!)

But I had no choice so I slouched in there, bracing myself for the lines and the chained pens and the Soviet peasants impassively watching two dogs tear each other apart by the deposit forms, but guess what: The place was empty. Just three tellers standing there, smiling expectantly.

That’s when I realized that nobody goes to the bank anymore! Unless there’s something fascinatingly unusual about you! These tellers — each sporting just the right amount of too much makeup — could not wait to see what my deal was.

Sometimes when I’m feeling blue I walk through the lobby of a hotel I could never afford to stay in. Ask the concierge where I can get a quality shoeshine. Sit in an overstuffed leather chair and nod as I pretend to read the newspaper. Check my watch. You do that for half an hour and you feel like you have your shit together. Everyone there assumes you know what you’re doing in this life and why wouldn’t they? They have nothing to gain from poking holes in the lies you tell yourself.

That’s how the bank was. Suddenly it was Mr. Allen. It was Very good, sir. The carpet was superbly vacuumed. The temperature was amazing.

Savoring the moment, I concluded my business by asking for two crisp hundred dollar bills, “just in case.” The teller regretted to inform me that would exceed my balance and I just ran out of there choking back humiliated sobs that sounded like this: guh kuhh guhhhh

» Rating: SIX SEXY LADIES