Sometimes the Clothes Do Not Make the Man

Previously on Poor Impulse Control, I waxed enthusiastic about credit unions and community banks. I fucking hate the big banks. No surprise there! Wanna read what I wrote? Yeah, me too. It’s a lot harder than it used to be now that I have to google my own blog posts. Anyhoo, in August, I flipped the pages in my checkbook and realized that for me, it was now or never, and never was not an option when it comes to getting out from under. With great trepidation, I contacted the credit union and asked them to body-slam Wachovia if the bank fuckers tried to direct deposit my check again, though not in so many words. I used far fewer words, and the delicate souls at the credit union flinch when I talk so I chose them carefully and signed up for online banking. Then I waited for hilarity to ensue.

At some point in the future, when I have recovered from spending more than six weeks cursing the ancestors of professionals who are supposed to know more about what I’m doing than I do, I will describe this comic battle through interpretive dance. Suffice it for the present to say the Greek chorus regards me with fear and won’t take my calls, but my bills are paid.

This morning, I closed my Wachovia accounts and when asked repeatedly why, I repeatedly answered, “Wells Fargo and Wachovia are a criminal enterprise. Please let me say that clearly, in case this call is recorded for quality purposes. Wells Fargo and Wachovia are a criminal enterprise – emphasis on the word CRIMINAL.” What, you thought I’d put on pants and go to the bank in person? Oh hell no. I was wearing flannel pajamas. I was happy in flannel pajamas. Even when Wells Fargo hung up on me twice I was happy. Fuck those guys!

What a relief it is to feel like I’ve quit aiding and abetting those craven motherfuckers!

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