I miss you, Interac

I often need to go to the bank to transfer money from one account to another.

By which I mean: I take money out of the ATM (from account A), and I put it right back into the ATM (to account B).

Why in the hell should that be necessary?

I might not complain so much if it wasn’t for the fact that there is a branch of my bank (Chase Chase Chase Chase I hate you Chase) less than a block from my apartment.

But the ATM at that particular location is always giving me this bullshit:

In case that’s not legible, the marquee at the top reads “This Chase ATM is currently unable to accept cash deposits…”

That marquee mocks me about 50% of the time I visit that ATM, so I’m forced to go to the next branch. And I usually have to walk both ways because the CTA sucks. I believe I’ve complained about them many times previously, so I’ll spare you now.

All to take money out of the machine and put it right back freakin’ in.

Did you Americans know that in Canada you can just e-mail money to someone? And I ain’t talking about PayPal, neither. I’m talking about Interac, a mystical, magical future technology that I miss with ridiculous amounts of missitude, and am not going to bother explaining because, having tried before, it is clearly beyond the understanding of Americans. But with the Interac network I certainly wouldn’t need to walk to an ATM to transfer money to myself, and I wouldn’t have to move my ass from in front of my computer to send money to anyone in Canada with a bank account and an e-mail address. An. Y. One.

When I tell people in Canada about the American banking system, it’s like I’m describing something from the Stone Age. They are amazed by how bass ackwards it is and look at me with confuzzlement. America: please to fix before I curmudgeon myself to death.

Zombie Christ is a greedy bastard

Look. I think it’s perfectly legitimate, if you’re resurrected, to adopt a new (re)birthday on the date you became one of the undead. But if you’re going to do so, as far as I’m concerned, you forfeit your original birthday.

So what’ll it be, Jesus? Christmas, or Easter? You can’t have both. I know you’re just in it for the extra presents (everyone knows that people with birthdays near Christmas get stiffed), but fucking shit — whether you came back from the dead or not in the first place (and you didn’t, because that’s impossible — but supposing you might have), you’re dead as a doornail now. Considering this, you probably don’t merit even one birthday party a year.

I really don’t think that it’s fair that your worm-eaten ass gets to inconvenience those of us that choose not to form deep personal relationships with corpses (seriously, people, that’s pretty morbid) by closing down everything but IHOP multiple times per year. All I got to do today was sit around and stew about my ruined weekend plans.

Could you bastards at least arrange to hold your borrowed pagan fertility festival on the same day each year? For those of use who aren’t Christians (or at least, for me), it’s pretty easy to lose track of the precise date, on account of it holds absolutely no meaning whatsoever.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

Soooo… UPS fucked us again. Didn’t ring the doorbell, and left an incomplete tag. The lady on the phone tells me that a signature is required in person. How would I know that, mister driver? I would have otherwise just left the tag out with a signature on the back, expecting my package to be left on Monday… But nooooo. Asshat. I was told they might try to deliver again today, because I guess I’m effective at complaining (you’d hope so, by now) (the trick is to make sure you don’t say anything at all that could make it seem like you were in any way at fault, because then they basically say “sucks to be you”). If so, I guess I’ll just go sit on the stoop all day or something. And slap the driver when he shows up.

If you have a package delivered by the USPS instead of UPS or FedEx, it still won’t get to your door, but at least they let you pick it up at the nearest post office. UPS or FedEx make us go to Buttfuck, Illinois to pick shit up. Buttfuck, Illinois, BTW, is not accessible by public transit, and guess who doesn’t have a car. So our packages are frequently returned to sender. Awesomeness.

And yeah, they just called me back. Guess I’ll be on the porch from 4:45-5:15pm.