Traipsing Through The Juvenalia
I'm probably on another terrorist watch list due to the vast quantities of poison I've bought these past couple of weeks: the backyard is a veritable antopia, and while I don't mind ants crawling through the dirt I DID mind the ants crawling under the siding or foundations of our house (for fear they'd find a way in). So I bought several cans of Raid, and noticed that each can of insecticide has the words "Johnson: A Family Company" prominently displayed on top. Which is great, because when I buy deadly toxic substances I expect them to reflect solid traditional family values; there will be no illegitimate-bastard poisons in MY household, by Zod.
Speaking of bastards (tho' not necessarily illegitimate ones; I have no idea if his parents were married or not), kudos to the uptight asshole from the HOA who couldn't be bothered to issue my parking pass in a timely manner; thanks to him, my first morning in my new home cost me $150 and a trip to the local towing facility.
But back to the poison: in addition to being family-friendly, each can of Raid claims to smell delicious. You can get lemon-scented poison, ocean breeze poison, forest-glade poison, each option more asinine than the previous one. Look: if I'm spraying insecticide throughout my household and you, my human guest, happen to catch a whiff of it, I do NOT want you to say "My, that smells nice!" and take deep breaths of it; I want you to wrinkle your nose and say "Eeew, that stinks!" so as to avoid inhaling even more. (Unless you work for the TSA, in which case let me remind you that if your house smells funky, Lemon Fresh Raid is a much better option than Febreze. Be sure to keep your doors and windows tightly shut, so none of that fresh-scented goodness can escape.)
A couple of days before leaving Connecticut for good, I experienced mild panic upon realizing "Oh, hell, my bank does not have branches in Virginia; WTF am I to do with my life's savings?" So I quickly opened an account with a certain national bank -- won't say the name for privacy reasons, but it rhymes with "Hell's Cargo" -- which had a branch near my old Connecticut apartment and also near my new Virginia one.
After going down to Virginia, I went to my local Hell's Cargo office to make sure my New England bank check had cleared (it had), and the Hell's Cargo lady tried telling me I absolutely had to sign up for online banking. I told her no thanks; I don't trust online banking for fear of hackers and identity theft.
She assured me Hell's Cargo's databases are extremely secure. "I'm sure they are," I said. "So were the taxpayer databases for the state of Connecticut, and the database for whatever company bought the student loan I'd paid off several years before, yet they still sent me letters warning me to check my credit report because they lost my information. I do not want to do any online banking so that when the Russian Mafia inevitably hacks into my account, I can honestly say 'I have never done any online banking transactions; thus, every one of these is fraudulent'."
But the Hell's Cargo lady insisted I had to sign up for online banking anyway. Under ordinary circumstances I would have argued the point, but that morning I was just too damned tired, what with having spent the past couple weeks as an overburdened pack animal, so I just sighed, slumped my shoulders and said "I hate having to close a bank account that isn't even two weeks old."
That's when the Hell's Cargo lady remembered that online banking isn't mandatory after all. Nor is it mandatory for me to answer her questions regarding what I pay in rent, what I earn in income, where I work or who I work for. (Although, if someone tries to get this information from me next time I go there, I plan to tell them my monthly rent is a hundred dollars and my monthly income fifty. Let their computers chew on that for awhile.)
I'm now in the process of unpacking boxes, and have been finding some horribly embarrassing juvenalia. Apparently I tried writing a musical about Anne Frank, including one song sung to the tune of MacArthur Park (or, more specifically, to the tune of Weird Al Yankovic's parody Jurassic Park). Here's how it starts: