Wednesday, September 17, 2008

Is It National Asshole Month And I Missed The Memo?

In my job as a banker, I meet some interesting people. That sometimes translates into people who have a very interesting take on life that amuses me and makes me think about new ways of approaching problems, appreciating the little things, or communicating. Then again, it sometimes translates into self important douche bags who like to make themselves feel important when the world just doesn't make sense to them.

A client at the bank this week was told by our telephone express department that there was a $700 transaction on her account with Monday's date on it Tuesday at 5:30. She called the branch, and we tried to explain to her that until it shows up in our claims system (1-3 days), we can't dispute the transaction. She then blusters about her husband's connections, and proceeds to call the cops. A plainclothes detective shows up, and I, at my manager Alice's urging, deny him entry into the building until I can call my manager back (at this point I was the only senior staff member present) and he calls two patrol cars to back him up. When they finally arrive and knock, I realize that the uniformed guys are someone I HAVE to let in, so I open the door, and he practically tears the door open. After reading me the riot act about correct procedure for identifying plain clothes officers, he spoke to Alice and she smoothed things over (and I may have gotten a free day off out of it). So I have to deal with THAT as I'm ready to leave the building. POINTER: You don't call the cops when there is a transaction you don't recognize, even if your husband IS the fucking DA, or works for him, or gargles his balls, whatever this old bitch claimed. You follow bank procedure, and don't abuse your power. The officer in question is friends with her husband, and is now being questioned by our security department for procedural irregularity.

Another client sat at my desk and asked me a series of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. When she left, I assumed I had done all I could to answer her questions in a courteous, professional matter, mostly because she thanked me and didn't say "I'm sorry, I'm still not satisfied." Well, turns out she was NOT satisfied, as she claims that my answer to one of her problems was me handing her a pile of papers and saying "here, YOU find it". BULLSHIT, bitch. That stack of papers was me handing you the tangled mess you've made out of your Christmas Club by changing how much you put in every time you renew it. It is not my fault if you don't know what your husband is doing to your joint accounts behind your back (or what he's likely doing to your bedsheets with his secretary while you're off griping about everything in the world). Incidentally, the only way she knew about ANY of this is because I tried out of the kindness of my dumb old heart to explain something I THOUGHT might appear confusing to the mind of a newborn ferret, or a creature of similar intelligence. Apparently I overestimated her.

A client came in and wasted a full two hours of my time just before I was about to go to lunch and had me open an account. He lied to me about how much money he was depositing, he counted each bill of the rubber banded wad one at a time licking his fingers between each bill, he then pulled out a second wad of bills when I was forced to count it anyway, he mumbled, he smelled bad, and he had an annoying habit of shaking his head side to side when the answer to my question is yes. DICKFUCK.

It seems like 99% of the clients I deal with this week are fucksticks. Will everybody just shut the fuck up, have a milkshake, and fucking chill for five minutes?


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