Wednesday, 27 February 2008

How to hate banks

I have not seen the TV commercial for the Commonwealth Bank that is getting some stick at the moment (and I have no intention of deliberately looking out for it either - I paid good money for a digital video recorder so I could skip shite like that).

But I have had to put up with these BankWest posters that are infesting Darling Harbour. I shall henceforth refer to the said bank as "BankFester", or "The Festering Bank", because it would be unfair to those that masturbate to call them a pack of wankers.

The marketing manager that sat around and got stoned with the advertising agency that came up with this series of ads should be flung testicles first off the top of the BankWest building, and the advertising people should be impaled.


What kind of gaggle of fucking idiots could ever imagine that the purpose of a bank is to make you happy?

There is only one way my bank could make me happy. Give me at least a million dollars, and then don't expect me to pay it back. And that does not include things like me going bankrupt, or defrauding the bank, computer error, or me taking 19 staff hostage and forcefeeding them the testicles of advertising executives until they gave me lots of money.

I am talking about the bank just being nice and giving me lots of money, with no strings attached.

Can't do that? Well then - fuck off. You lack the ability to make me happy. You exist to provide me with a service, and there is no proviso that says that the provision of that service has to make me happy. If you can figure out a way to make your ATM's give me a handjob everytime I take some money out, you might be getting somewhere, but your function is to take cash deposits, not sperm ones.

To me, dealing with the bank is like doing a poo. It is a necessary thing. It is something that has to be done on a regular basis if normal life is to be sustained. One can generally choose whether to do a poo in a nice place or a nasty place (like the toilets at Town Hall station), and you can use a selection of farty-masking odorisers if you want, and you can make things more pleasant by buying expensive toilet paper, but you can't disguise the fact that you are doing a crap. You are laying a woombi. It may involve skidmarks and slimy bits and heaven forbid, a bit of blood. If curry was consumed the night before, all bets of a pleasant experience are off.

In short, unless you are German and have a fetish for certain odd things, sitting on the porcelein throne is unlikely to be the highlight of your day. You can make it as unpleasant as possible, but I don't run around going, "Gee, I'm really looking forward to doing a crap after lunch. I love doing a crap. It's just ace."

We just do it, try our best not to notice the smell, and move on.

Banking is the same. Accept it, and get over it.

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