3rd
Fuck you, wells fargo.
Yeah, sure it was nice when I opened my account. I remember the stuffed pony that you gave me and that I then gave to Kunal, who urgently needed it for whatever reason. I also remember that when I walked in to open an account in bike gear, you sent the banker that likes bikes to help me. Click click click. Hey, nice shoes! Shimano? Totally sweet. Nice touch, WF, really. A bank that cares. But then what happened? You shat on me, over and over again. Where are my checks, wells fargo? Where is my debit card? In the mail? Still? Please. Every person who has ever hated that there is an institution whose stated purpose includes knowing where you are realizes that the mail doesn’t fuck up. I used to collect debt. Most common excuse? It’s in the mail. Yeah right, WF, it’s in the mail. Still.
What? Am I now too angry to deal with a teller? Is it time to send out someone from management? The free coffee is out? Maybe I’d like another cup? Yeah, no, but, well if you’re making some, I guess, but don’t, well yeah, sure. Wait! I’m still angry!
Sent to address the situation, WF, were two of your ‘managers’, one of whom was 18 and ‘not really, you know, ready for school yet’, and the other, his assistant, was 12. Great, your shirt is tucked in. Are you in charge? I officially think you’re a dipshit. Do I have maybe 10 or 15 minutes to talk about how to make sure my account is protected? No! Certainly when I chose a bank, the ability to be confounded by simple problems was not the basis of that choice! Please, WF, I only request that you allow me to spend my money!
Ah, Kat was so proud of me for not being mean to anyone. Does this count as a good deed, when I could so easily have been so mean?
