a dirty bank statement
hairpins on my bank statement. as well as a smudge of olive oil. and EXTRA STRENGTH ibuprofen tablets.
no, hsbc don't know. they, being a serious banking operation, would disappove of such frivolous handling of debt evidence. they generate nice crisp statements, and stuff them lovingly in an envelope brImming with bank propaganda. and they pay, to send it to me.
they are never late mailing my debt evidence, like i am with my christmas cards.
even if they were real busy, busier than me,
the envelope would still be waiting on my doormat.
i worry only momentarily about their sad monthly portraits of my negative personal per capita gross percentage. i worry more about a moth in my lamp, dying a hot death.
i worry more about pollution sticking to my face. or being stalked, followed home and bludgeoned.
or the CAT wanting to run her claws through my tights.
i've never written a personal letter to hsbc, don't remember the name of the nice asian lady that helped me fix up transfers to america.
i have become in the eyes of the big men that run this place. alan greenspan or something.
alan greenspan might be real smart, but he still looks like mr.burns on the simpsons.
would he be nice to the cat?
would he stroke my pussy?
oh alan. don't run your claws through my tights. i can't afford a new pair.
picturing alan greenspan working at my local (the one and only) hsbc is like alain ducasse handing out frites and big macs at mcdonalds.
hsbc is the money mcdonalds.
there must be far classier establishments elsewhere. like in the middle east. i bet in dubai they get really nice bank statements. because they must not have big credit card bills like us, the poor fat white people. those sheiks in their robes, the bank gets REAL happy when it sees them on their way. not sure why they'd go the bank
--oh yeah, to put money in.
forgot you could do that too.
they surely give piles of money to the bank. a bank with a marble foyer, a great high ceiling and fountains in the centre of the room. butlers, fresh donuts and coffee. they want to make their customers feel real loved... unlike at hsbc where we sit for hours while they twitter and gossip around the corner from the waiting area. just out of sight, but we can hear them as we sit. watching a third-rate news channel and picking boredly through a newspaper two days old. there is never anything left but the sports section. boring stories about british sailors.
by the time we are called for our audience with The One Who May Grant A Larger Overdraft, our shoulders are slumped and our fingers are sticky with newsprint. we leave filthy smudges on their pen. we have to borrow an hsbc pen to sign the overdraft agreement (in triplicate).
we always misplace our pens before this crucial signing moment, as with all crucial moments. leaving our important company no other choice but to think us unprepared.
where DO the pens in handbags go when we need them?
i bet the arab bank statements come in glossy black envelopes as hot black honey flows monthly from the arab pockets into that bank. i bet the there are little grey gas pumps printed on the statements, a subtle accent to all the zeroes before the decimal point. and no red minus sign before it.
i know the red minus sign. its on the cakes the old ladies fight for late night shopping at sainsbury's. thomas says thats all they can afford. i just think they like cake. and bargains.
after a certain age, we all become more like alan. alan-wannabes.
our earning power is over. we are financially reclining and physically declining. biding our time until our clogs pop off and our piddly financial leftovers are scooped up by our surviving relatives. to put towards their red minus sign. hoping one day it will fade to pink. or even fall off. like a scab.
no, hsbc don't know. they, being a serious banking operation, would disappove of such frivolous handling of debt evidence. they generate nice crisp statements, and stuff them lovingly in an envelope brImming with bank propaganda. and they pay, to send it to me.
they are never late mailing my debt evidence, like i am with my christmas cards.
even if they were real busy, busier than me,
the envelope would still be waiting on my doormat.
i worry only momentarily about their sad monthly portraits of my negative personal per capita gross percentage. i worry more about a moth in my lamp, dying a hot death.
i worry more about pollution sticking to my face. or being stalked, followed home and bludgeoned.
or the CAT wanting to run her claws through my tights.
i've never written a personal letter to hsbc, don't remember the name of the nice asian lady that helped me fix up transfers to america.
i have become in the eyes of the big men that run this place. alan greenspan or something.
alan greenspan might be real smart, but he still looks like mr.burns on the simpsons.
would he be nice to the cat?
would he stroke my pussy?
oh alan. don't run your claws through my tights. i can't afford a new pair.
picturing alan greenspan working at my local (the one and only) hsbc is like alain ducasse handing out frites and big macs at mcdonalds.
hsbc is the money mcdonalds.
there must be far classier establishments elsewhere. like in the middle east. i bet in dubai they get really nice bank statements. because they must not have big credit card bills like us, the poor fat white people. those sheiks in their robes, the bank gets REAL happy when it sees them on their way. not sure why they'd go the bank
--oh yeah, to put money in.
forgot you could do that too.
they surely give piles of money to the bank. a bank with a marble foyer, a great high ceiling and fountains in the centre of the room. butlers, fresh donuts and coffee. they want to make their customers feel real loved... unlike at hsbc where we sit for hours while they twitter and gossip around the corner from the waiting area. just out of sight, but we can hear them as we sit. watching a third-rate news channel and picking boredly through a newspaper two days old. there is never anything left but the sports section. boring stories about british sailors.
by the time we are called for our audience with The One Who May Grant A Larger Overdraft, our shoulders are slumped and our fingers are sticky with newsprint. we leave filthy smudges on their pen. we have to borrow an hsbc pen to sign the overdraft agreement (in triplicate).
we always misplace our pens before this crucial signing moment, as with all crucial moments. leaving our important company no other choice but to think us unprepared.
where DO the pens in handbags go when we need them?
i bet the arab bank statements come in glossy black envelopes as hot black honey flows monthly from the arab pockets into that bank. i bet the there are little grey gas pumps printed on the statements, a subtle accent to all the zeroes before the decimal point. and no red minus sign before it.
i know the red minus sign. its on the cakes the old ladies fight for late night shopping at sainsbury's. thomas says thats all they can afford. i just think they like cake. and bargains.
after a certain age, we all become more like alan. alan-wannabes.
our earning power is over. we are financially reclining and physically declining. biding our time until our clogs pop off and our piddly financial leftovers are scooped up by our surviving relatives. to put towards their red minus sign. hoping one day it will fade to pink. or even fall off. like a scab.
posted by Camille at 9:37 pm
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