Dear PeopleWiththeMoney, I left you a message yesterday but I'm not sure if you've received it. Apparently the daily limit on the debit card is $700, but I've called my bank and changed the limit to cover the charge for your fee and interest rate fee. It should have been effective 10 minutes or so after I called my bank, and so the charge should go through this time. If for some reason this doesn't work (everything should be all set now) I would be happy to give you a different credit card number to expedite this process. Thanks,
L
Response:
Dear L, We have tried your card several times, and the transaction is not being approved. I hope you understand, but we're not going to process any more transactions. Please overnight a check. Thanks,
dumbcuntbitch
Response
Dear dumbcuntbitch,
While I appreciate being treated like a deadbeat loan customer who is overdue for their snowmobile payment, I'd appreciate a little more professionalism on your part next time. I understand that it takes a valuable 15 seconds from your day to walk your fat ass over to the tellers' desk and hand them the note with the credit card numbers, but it'd be neat if you could try one more time. Otherwise, I understand you want us to spend $17.00 to overnight a check to your bank, in order to PAY YOUR BANK for the services you might render if you approve us for this loan. Oh, after you have an appraisal done on the house (paid for by yours truly), which can't be done until we get a driveway in, which won't happen until November 1st. So if you're soooooo imapatient to get your greedy, sausagelike fingers on our money, it'd be neat if you'd accommodate our request to do it electronically, instead of looking down your Mary Kay encrusted nose at our puny incomes. Also, if you could remove the giant hair from your ass before speaking to me again, it'd be appreciated.
Anyway, we're going to go ahead and use another bank that doesn't treat us like 8 year olds taking out a loan for some BubbleTape despite recommendations from our financial advisor/teddy bear.
Some thoughts from a near-Halloween evening here in Salem:
-Saw a film at CinemaSalem tonight (yes, all merged together like some megacorporation. We saw Michael Clayton with 7 other people). A little confusing, as if we walked in about a half hour late, but entertaining nonetheless. I invent the backstory I don't know. Anyway, there was a woman two rows in front of us. She was maybe the most irritating co-viewer I've seen in awhile. There were 4 people total in the theater when she arrived. She elected to sit one seat away from two other moviegoers. I can imagine their displeasure, especially as she itched her way through the previews. During the trivia shown before the film, she insisted on announcing her answers (e.g. question: "Who was the first person to survive going over Niagara Falls in a barrel?" Annoyer's answer (loudly): "George Bush", followed by a super annoying snicker.) Sometimes I wish I carried a SuperSoaker filled with mayonnaise all the time. I drank my way past how annoying she was. No word on how annoyed the rest of the crowd was listening to me awkwardly opening multiple delicious Natural Lights. I'll check my comment cards.
-In the afternoon, I managed to clog the toilet. With my poop. And maybe some G.I. Joes that got reassigned to the Navy SEALS. Anyway, we didn't bring our plunger along with us when we moved. Thus, it was either go shoulder-deep in my own dung or go purchase a new plunger. As I have a sensitive gag reflex (insert gay joke here) I elected to visit our local Walgreens to pick up a new plunger. After the purchase, I was walking home amongst the Halloween revelers. Never have I felt older than walking between Captain Jack Sparrow, a pimp and two slutty witches with a SuperPlunger in hand. I'm almost officially a member of the AARP at 25. I'm also the uncontested lamest person in America.
-40 oz of Steel Reserve = almost guaranteed miserable Sunday. I'll keep you posted.
edit:
Two beers: For two queers: Other candidate: 2 40s for $4.40 (coincidence? I think not.)
I had the good fortune to obtain tickets to game 7 of the ALCS on Sunday. I had the good fortune to get a ride in with my dad, whom I like. We got tickets through some connection with my aunt and the only catch (besides paying for them) was that we had to drop off two tickets (there were four total) to the people who would be our seatmates for the game. No big deal, you're bound to sit next to some jerk anyway, might as well know what you're up against.
Our pals, we'll just say their names were A and B, were at Game On, next to Fenway. This is an establishment where alcoholic beverages are sold, and Sunday I believe most of them were sold to our friends A and B. Needless to say, they were very friendly when we dropped off the tickets. We shared an awkward meeting/exchange and went into the park ahead of them. I purchased two delicious Miller Lites and gave one to my dad. We both drank them and eagerly awaited the start of the game.
A showed up about 1 minute before the first pitch, and was in great spirits. High fives were had by all, and smiles abounded. B was nowhere to be found, and A was calling and texting in a valiant effort to reunite with his buddy. Eventually, B shows up, making lots of friends in our section despite falling all over them in his inebriated walk to his seat. Everyone loves a happy drunk. The game is fun, lots of cheering in the early innings, the Sox scored a single run in each of the first three frames. Matsuzaka was pitching well (no doubt due to the fact that I was wearing his jersey tshirt) and things were good.
After the third inning, B stops being so animated and jovial, and starts sitting with his head in his lap. He does not look good; in fact, he looks like I'd imagine someone looks when they are seasick. His demeanor and body language begin to alert those in the crowd around us that we may have a vomit situation approaching. Nobody likes a pukey drunk. There are various words, I wouldn't say of encouragement, but of recommendations that B move on, or at least not contaminate our seating area with his dinner. After a few minutes of nervous observation by most of us in section 95, rows NN-QQ, B stands up (no small feat) and heads for what I assumed was the restroom. The rest of the section, visibly relieved, turned its attention back to the game, where the Sox were busy returning their 3 run lead.
Now A begins behaving unusually. He is either convulsing gently, or crying, or maybe just hiccuping. He is no longer engaged in the game, and while standing, exhibits a gentle swaying behavior typically associated with people at a Yanni concert, or maybe someone who's about to pass out on their feet.
My dad, concerned parent that he always was and will be, asks A if he's ok. A assures us, in slurred speech, that he's fine. Worst lie since Santa Claus. Regardless, A lasts only another 10 minutes or so before he excuses himself by passing through what must have seemed to him to be an impassable gauntlet of seats, feet, and empty beer cups. Through the grace of God or the Sox insurance agency, he makes it to the lower level, where there are only ramps to roll down.
Our unusual seatmates gone with an anticlimactic finish (though I can't speak for what may or may not have happened either in the bathroom or at their hotel room (one double bed + two drunk dudes = ??)), Pops and I are left to enjoy the game. Pedroia, Okajima, Papelbon, and finally a terrific catch by Coco treated us to this: Fenway likes winners from Sam on Vimeo.
Dirty Water. See you back in Fenway, Wednesday night.
Today, I went to the Registry of Motor Vehicles. It's the next step in my becoming integrated into the utopia that is the New England state with the longest name. In preparation for this event, L and I have completed the following tasks:
-Cancelled old insurance. Couldn't renew, because GEICO will not insure cars in MA. Only state in the union they won't insure cars in. Hmm, maybe they were onto something?
-Searched for a new insurance carrier. Turns out AAA will not only tow your car and give you neat shiny stickers, they'll also parasitically sell you insurance. Oh you're a member? Here's a coupon for a $0.32 discount - every six months!
-L spent some time on the phone with an agent, and then later in that week in person to get all the forms filled out. Oh - no, sorry, she can't buy insurance for the car because I'm on the registration. Thank you Massachusetts, otherwise people would be out buying each other insurance willy nilly. And then where would that leave us? In chaos.
-L and I set out one morning to get the insurance process complete. We visited the AAA office in Peabody and were told it was going to be 'at least an hour and then that guy's in front of you'.
-We visit the Saugus branch instead. A nice lady named Maria helped us out. The process took about two hours, I ended up somehow renewing my AAA membership so that it expires earlier than it would have had I not renewed, I think I lost a kidney and I'm getting lots more telemarketer calls now. But we have a policy. For our car. In Massachusetts. We are told to register the car in the state within 7 days, get an insurance inspection within 7 days, and a safety inspection within 10 days. That's right, two different inspections. But don't worry, says Maria, there are places that will do BOTH! Yes, there are two of those places, one's in the whale tank at the aquarium and the other is located on a randomly selected subway car or bus, changed daily.
-Moving on. The closest RMV to my work is in Chinatown. I had no idea how far away this was for real, but luckily it is located on the T. Neat for me. They have really convenient hours for the working man/woman, from 10am to 11:15am on Wednesday.
-I set out to accomplish the registration during my lunch hour. I figured it would take a little longer, but I could make up the time (writing this blog entry). I managed to find the building, discovering in the process that the orange line runs approximately once an hour. Convenient. My tax dollars at work. I had already filled out the MVU-29 form (waiver for sales tax - sidenote - what the hell? when during this process did a purchase anything? assholes. /sidenote) and the insurance lady filled out the RMV-1 (proof of insurance, and you know it's important 'cause it's #1), I had my ME registration and the title number for my car, which technically the bank still owns.
-I am helped within 5 minutes of arriving. I use the term 'helped' looselyas loose as the twat's cunt that helped me. I'm pleasantly surprised by the alacrity of service. Within 30 seconds of my arrival, my enthusiasm wanes. Actual conversation:
Bitch behind counter: Why does the registration only say you, but the form says you and L? Bitch in front of counter (that's me): I don't know. I think because I went by myself to register it in Maine. BBC: Well we can't do that. BFC: Can't do what? BBC: Process this. BFC: Why? BBC: The names aren't the same. BFC: I see that. But I can't change the old registration. BBC: Then you'll have to have the insurance company change the form. BFC: But she's a co-owner and the primary driver. BBC: She's not on the form.
At this point the whore customer service representative goes to find her supervisor. I figure I can find out why they need this stuff to match, and if I can't just provide some proof of whatever it is they need.
BBC2: The names need to match. BFC: Well I can't change the registration. BBC2: Then you need to change the form, or provide proof of ownership for the second name.
--editor's note- I'm condensing TWO visits to the counter into one, for whatever brevity is left--
BFC: But here's the loan information, she's on that. BBC2: We don't care about that. We need to see the title. BFC: Can you have it faxed to you? BBC2: YOU can have it faxed.
At this point, really, I'm seeing mostly red. It has seriously been a two week process to get here, and obviously I've wasted my time. Not to mention the valuable time of the exemplary public servants at the RMV, who could have been using the time to berate some other tax payer. I attempt to get the title faxed, but the office where the title is located is closed Wednesdays at 1pm for the day. (By the way, it's 1:30pm) Surprisingly, no luck here.
This is a long, and annoying, post, so I'd like to summarize a number of things that made me most angry:
-The disconnect between the people who create the forms/procedures, etc. and the people who execute them. No one could tell me why the state needs to know who registered the car previously. Obviously, they've been instructed that all their paperwork should be THIS WAY, and not to accept anything else. Even if some other documentation can be shown to prove the same thing. There's no room for alternate methods. -The website has no indication that any sort of title information (besides the number and lienholder) is required. -The reps were rude. I realize the reason they acted as if they just wanted me to go away was because, well, they just wanted me to go away, but I thought they were providing a service to the public. If it's required that we do certain things, the people who assist in that capacity should be interested in helping you complete the thing. I was probably a little rude back, but screw it. They're probably writing their own blog entry at imanasshole.blogspot.com -There was no consideration for the fact that I wasted about two hours of my time. Mother effers. I wish I worked in some field where our paths would cross, and I could be really petty and send them on a wild goose chase for about 6 months. Screw it, I'll just flatten all their car tires.
Anyway, I have to get a copy of the title and do this all over again tomorrow. So far I'm 0-2 at registering the car, let's hope I can pick it up and go 1-3. If I don't succeed, there will be a neat segment on Fox News about rising license plate theft on the North Shore. Are your plates safe?
I know there's been a lot written and discussed about the United States' differences with North Korea, and specifically with Kim Jong Il. I've devised a way to take care of it. Il has recently stated that he's an internet expert,which, incidentally, I also claim.
We're going to have an internet-off. Sam vs. Kim. Winner gets to do what they want with their nuclear weapons, and loser has to turn off electricity in their country. Rules to be determined.
So Kim, you up for it, or are you feeling Il? hahahahahahahahahahahahaahahahaha.
Our new home in Salem has lots of interesting new places nearby. Some are restaurants, some are Tarot card reading places, some are liquor stores. My favorite (which is coincidentally the closest) is Bunghole Liquors. Now, the bunghole has several different definitions. According to dictionary.com, it is a hole in a cask through which it is filled.However, urban dictionary has a different take:1)Rectum, brown eye, poop chute. I probably don't have to say which one makes me giggle.
Anyway, BL makes their own booze:Three guesses as to how much this 750mL bottle cost: $7.99 (<---highlight for answer) They also provide the final piece to my Steel Reserve collection:The anticipation is killing you, isn't it?Mmm. That's right, enough alcohol in one package (under $2) to kill a small child. Not that you'd give this to a child, or course. They'd probably just throw it up, anyway. Anyway, that led to this:Which, incidentally, led to some of the worst next day beer farts in history. Sorry, neighbors and visiting Mormons.
Made a trip up to Maine last weekend, primarily to clean out the house to ready it for its new tenants, but also to spend some time with some good people and have an excuse to binge drink, socially. I originally intended to barbecue at the house, but then I moved everything necessary to barbecue with. So unless people wanted to eat food cooked over an asphalt shingle fire, I thought perhaps we should just go to a bar/restaurant, eat some food, drink some beers, and then play beirut at the empty house. Because I did have a sheet of plywood, cups, ping pong balls, beer, and a budding cirrhosis of the liver (tricky spelling on that - I clearly would not have placed well in med school spelling bee). I suggested Binga's, because they have good wings. And I like wings. And it's all about me.
Apparently (as I would find out in more detail later in the day), Binga's is a popular hangout for the local women's rugby team, and whomever they happen to play that week. This week, it was some lovely ladies from Worcester. Not only did they fill the bar (which wouldn't have taken that many of them anyway, as most were, um, of healthy girth), but they offered up some songs. Here's what I learned from my favorite, which I titled 'Is Everybody Happy':
Monday - Titty Day Tuesday - day for unnnnnnnnnnghhhhhhhh (which was accompanied by simulated oral sex to both sexes. As you can imagine, there were probably women there who would argue the merits of either choice strenuously, before ripping your arm off and chugging the beer still clutched in the fingers) Wednesday - Dancing Day Thursday - Practice (or Fucking Practice day, depending on the verse. I feel like there was some room for improvisation in this tune) Friday - Fucking Day Saturday - Game Day (which explains the post-game celebration perfectly) Sunday - The Lord's Day
Each verse ended with the semi-rhetorical question 'Is everybody happy?' and the entire bar (minus our tiny party) answers said question with 'You bet your ass we are', which is typically how I answer that same question. Other quality selections from the lesbian explosion in that bar were: 'Why Are We Waiting (We Could be Masturbating)' and 'Jesus Doesn't Play Rugby' (due to reasons such as 'The Jews won't pay his dues', 'His headgear is illegal', and 'The goalposts give him flashbacks'.
There was a great deal of audience interaction during these songs, and sadly, we were not able to participate because we didn't know most of the songs. That'll change next week though, I'll show up ready.
