Oh no they didn’t!
Oh yes they did.
Who goes to the bank anyway?
It was for work, okay. Get off my back.
For starters I was already out of my element because I was at a bank branch in suburbia where I am instantly out of place.
You don’t fit in anywhere.
True, true, but I especially don’t fit in at a suburban bank. I was standing in line behind a gentleman (using the term “gentleman” REAL loosely here) wearing a t-shirt that said “If God Wanted Us to Be Vegetarians….He Would Have Made Broccoli More Fun to Shoot At.”
I’ve said this before and I will inevitably say it again: I COULDN’T MAKE THIS SHIT UP IF I TRIED.
Insert: Me, standing awkwardly close to this guy to get a really really solid, internet worthy photo. None of that blurry pretending to take a selfie bullshit. This was the real deal. I was practically breathing semi-vegetarian broccoli breath all down his thick, stubbly neck.
But what really made me mad, what got me simmering almost over the edge was not the fact that this individual was clearly barely as intelligent as a functional retard but that this delightful garment was printed with a massive grammatical error: a preposition at the end of the sentence. Why couldn’t the broccoli just be un-fun to shoot, not shoot AT. While not only a grammatical abomination, this guy was clearly a shitty shot if he couldn’t even commit to actually HITTING the broccoli instead just shooting AT it all willy nilly whilst drunk on Coors Light.
So I got a touch distracted by my own photographic prowess and may not have realized when the next teller was open and it was my turn to step up. Happens to everyone once in a while and usually some nice patron behind you will say something like “looks like she’s open….”
Not today. That nice patron turned out to be a crotchety bank employee freshly let out of his cubicle cave and suddenly shoved into the 21st century where not only can women vote, they can wear their hair short.
“Shanquella’s open down here, SIR.”
Cause here’s the thing: I’M A FUCKING GIRL.
SIIIIRRRRRRR.
I turn reeeeaaallllll sllllooooow toward my offender never breaking eye contact on my way to the teller. He looks at me, swallows hard and opens his mouth as if to say something but cannot quite get the words out. He looks like he’s drowning on his own tongue; probably because I am using my telekinetic powers to instate a suburban-bank-tongue-drowning.
I set down my bank bag full of cash on the counter. Shanquella reaches over for it and says, “How’s your day going today?”
Really, Shan? Come on. You seem like a smart girl (not really).
“I just got called ‘sir’.”
Shanquella carries on, shuffling my deposit slips and digging for coins in the bottom of the bag. She glances up at me, “It’s probably just because you have short hair.”
NEVERMIND THAT I HAVE HUGE BOOBS AND AM CLEARLY A WOMAN FROM ANY ANGLE. I COULDN’T HIDE IT IF I TRIED.
“Or he’s just an idiot.”
Shanquella looks like she wants to laugh but is now fearful for her life. Instead she says, “lots of deposits today.”
YOU WORK AT THE FUCKING BANK. YES THERE ARE LOTS OF DEPOSITS TODAY. THAT’S WHY I’M HERE. IT’S NOT TO HANG OUT WITH YOU ASSHOLES.
When I got back to work I had my co-worker take my photo so that I could catalogue, like it’s evidence, just how much of a girl I am. This was me that day:
So, so manly.
I’m thinking about getting t-shirts printed that say “If God Wanted Us All to Be Males…..He Would Have Made Tits Less Amazing To Grab AT.”
What a fucker.
