Not in the clamor of the crowded street, not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng, but in ourselves, are triumph and defeat.--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

REDIRECT ALERT! (Scroll down past this mess if you're trying to read an archived post. Thanks. No, really, thanks.)

Due to my inability to control my temper and complacently accept continued silliness with not-quite-as-reliable-as-it-ought-to-be Blogger/Blogspot, your beloved Possumblog will now waddle across the Information Dirt Road and park its prehensile tail at http://possumblog.mu.nu.

This site will remain in place as a backup in case Munuvia gets hit by a bus or something, but I don't think they have as much trouble with this as some places do. ::cough::blogspot::cough:: So click here and adjust your links. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's one of those things.

Tuesday, May 04, 2004

I speak, and I get ACTION!

As you all no doubt recall, I mentioned (with no small amount of perturbation) my visit last month to the bank to pay my mortgage, and I noted that the sum I am forking over should entitle me to the pampering and attention one would bestow upon the Sultan of Brunei, or possibly even Shields and Yarnell.

Well, my friends, the vast power of the Internet seems to have finally been translated into something beneficial.

As I walked in, I was met by a team of four attractive young ladies who promptly seated me in a large, luxuriously-upholstered divan, which was floating on a cushion of air like an air hockey puck. Once I was very comfortable, another young lady (a tall, chestnut-haired girl named Bambi, I believe) wheeled out a giant plasma screen television and attached it in front of the divan, and quickly tuned it in to a Three Stooges marathon, then punched up a split screen, the other half filled with the History Channel.

At this point, two of the girls had me recline. Removing my shoes, they proceded to rub my feet with a fragrant combination of olive oil, orange blossoms, and peppermint, then struck up a fascinating conversation with me regarding firearms, and then Ludwig von Mises.

As we chatted, the president of the bank showed up to see if I was being well-taken care of. She was herself tall and tawny-hued, with a mane of tumbling dark blonde curls and eyes the color of lapis. I told her things had indeed gotten some better since last month, although I was a bit parched. She apologized profusely, and with a snap of her slim, yet strong fingers, an icy cold Diet Coke was brought to me in what appeared to be a Waterford decanter.

One of the girls, who could have been a clone of the young Jane Russell, swiftly and efficiently poured a generous serving into a tumbler and held it up so that I could sip it without raising my head from the pillow upon which it rested. "Better?" asked the bank president. "Much," I said, "but I must not take so much of your time--I do have a payment to make, after all." She and the rest of the girls pouted. "Oh, must you? Why don't you just keep your money--we have all we will ever need!"

"Yes," I said, "but, it is a matter of honor. I made an agreement, you know." They sagely nodded their respective, perfectly-coiffed heads in unison, and as I produced my check and my payment coupon, a high-cheekboned young redheaded lass appeared at my side and held aloft a silver charger, upon which I gently placed my papers. Like lightning, she flew away to the cashier, and in what seemed like only an instant, she was back again with a receipt and a winsome smile.

My socks and my shoes (freshly polished by unseen hands) were placed back upon my feet, and I was lightly lifted from the divan, my clothes were straightened, and my hair was brushed back down, just-so. The bank president took my hand in hers and gave me a firm and businesslike, yet warm and comforting, handshake. She looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Please. Come back again. Soon."

Not really.

Same old crap, and today they didn't even have the cheap cookies and weak coffee sitting out.

Maybe next month.

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