A recent exchange today between Mr. Scoop and a teller at the local bank:
Mr Scoop (unhappy to be awake before noon): Um...I'd like five money orders please.
Teller Chiquita (frighteningly perkily): No problem, sir! We'll need a check from your account to fund these orders.
Mr. Scoop (feeling the hangover and sunlight keenly): If I had checks, I don't think I'd be asking for the money orders now would I? (He grins and leans in for effect. The teller recoils and begins to look uncomfortable.)
Teller Chiquita (shaken): Well, I'll need your bank account number.
Mr. Scoop: i
Teller Chiquita: Ok, then. Anytime you're ready.
Mr. Scoop: No, really. My bank account number is imaginary. Type in the square root of negative one and see what you get, sweetheart.
What it got was us ejected by security. But not before Mr. Scoop killed a ficus by peeing on it in the corner while we waited.
When we got to the next bank, we found ourselves at a window next to a guy who apparently was confused about the difference between a bank and brothel.
Stupid Guy in the Denim Jacket: I'd like change for this twenty dollar bill in quarters.
Teller #2: Certainly, sir.
Stupid Guy: I'm watching you work back there and my you have great hands. I'm going to be using these quarters to fund my side of a Dance Dance Revolution battle at Good Times Emporium later, perhaps you'd like to accompany me? (Raises his eyebrows suggestively.)
Teller #2: I'm married.
Stupid Guy: Oh? Well, how about one of these other fine ladies? Because, all you lovely young things have me thinking that this is a bank and I'd like to make a deposit. (More silly eyebrow waggling)
Security escorted this guy out too. I don't know if he got his quarters before he got bounced. We were just happy that it wasn't us this time. I do know that I saw him walking on the side walk as we left. Mr. Scoop has a convertible. It is gernerally considered ill advised to stand up in a car as it's moving, but I pelted this douche with quarters as we drove by. I caught him in the kidneys and behind both knees. He fell, crippled to the pavement.
Me (shouting into the wind): Yeah! Dance-dance now, Bitch!
I figured I was was within my rights - It's one thing to mess with the bank staff in the name of an imaginary number. It's another thing to do it while brandishing a very real twenty. An imaginary number can be anything for the teller's trouble. A $20 won't even get you hand release in Chinatown. It was the principle of the thing.
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