Recently, I received in the post a pamphlet from my fiduciary institution of choice.
Actually, I received five of them. One for me and one for each of the not-me who live with me.
I read all five.
They were that well-written.
They sketched a harrowing landscape of thieves holding up banks all over our good Earth; not with guns, but with computers. Computers that shoot bullets, and computers that filch personal data from bank customer files and then use that information to create alternate versions of me that then take out alternate home loans and alternate credit cards to buy alternate homes and alternate life-like sex dolls that I swear I never would have bought with a credit card anyway.
Thankfully, my fiduciary institution of choice, which, for the sake of them being a bunch of overly-litigious tight-asses, shall remain nameless - as nameless as anything that rhymes with Hell's Cargo can remain - has given me choices of how they can use my information within their esteemed company.
Hereby, I make the following stipulations about how my bank (rhymes with Bell's Margo) may use my personal data inside their gold-plated walls:
1. Shirley, in accounts receivable, may never again, and I repeat, never again, perform a striptease using my social security number as the alternate lyrics to "Big Spender", even though it fits the rhythm. I thought it might turn me on and convince her to erase my overdraft charges, but it turns out it accomplished only half of those goals.
2. Gladys, in mortgages, may not use my full birth name as her password to her Danielle Steele fansite chatroom. I will accept spelling variations, but that's it.
3. Ricky, the Wednesday drive-through teller, may not use my county and state of birth as his personalized license plate; unless of course, he was also born there, or he buys a Jaguar.
4. Tom V., the security guard, may not be allowed to use my recent job history as the basis for his incendiary letters to the editor about the plight of the working man in contemporary America.
5. Michelle, in management, may use my credit score during luncheon meetings, but only if she makes air quotes with her fingers when "linking" the score to my name.
6. Pat, in customer service, may not use my work fax number unless sending me endlessly funny redneck joke lists.
7. Kyle, in accounts payable, may never learn my real middle name. We were separated at birth, and I'd like to keep it that way.
Well, that's as far as I go.
I hope this has given Smells Largo enough guidance to protect me from in-house misuse of my personal data. If not, I'm sure their lawyers will give me a call, asking for further direction.
It's so hard to convey belly laughter in words.
Well, you could always lay down on your keyboard and let your shaking belly type out its feelings.
Thank you, Jessica. Very nice to hear from you again.
Dude, if I somehow ended up with your identity and that rusty coffee can you call your bank account, I would probably feel like the victim and not the perpetrator.
Seriously, though, Michelle in management is not somebody you want to mess with. I mean, she keeps score (if you know what I mean).
Ohhh... I DO know what you mean!
Actually, Jim, I don't... I don't get it all.
Were you making air quotes when you were typing that?
And, by the way, how did you know about the rusty coffee can?
One of those bastards shared my data! i know it!
Who was it!?
It was Michelle, clearly.
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