I dropped in to Victoria's Secrets yesterday, to pay off my credit card balance.
The clerks at Vickie's do not prance around in lingerie, as you imagine they might; they are suited up and they are wearing headphones and microphones. Apparently hi-tech electronics are necessary for 4 clerks to communicate across 2-rooms of bloomers & boulder holders. The only thing missing is an air-traffic controller, with those orange popsicle-stick flashlights, directing me into the dressing room.
As I stood waiting, the young woman waiting on me announced, ever-so-loudly, that she needed help. "I have a problem with a check!" she yelled, into her microphone. "I don't care who comes, I just need help!"
Well, geez. If there's not enough money in my checking account to cover my $22.56 balance, something has gone terribly awry. "We have a slight problem here," she finally told me. "I did something wrong. You now have a $283,000 balance on your card."
I didn't want to panic, so I smiled and said, "That's a lot of panties." Clerk was by then sweating bullets and in no mood for panty humor. She scowled at me. I wiped that smile off my face to indicate I understood the graveness of the situation.
Not being much of a financier (obviously—I'm making payments on undergarments, for chrissakes), I stood contemplating: With over a quarter-million dollars in panty debt, at 23% interest compounded daily, I'll probably leave this place with $100 in interest fees!
*Smile* "It's all taken care of!" the panty brigade announced. Receipts were flying, and don't think I didn't notice they kept them all to themselves. I have no evidence of my balance and payment in full.
Covering their asses, they were...which was my very mission when I made my initial purchase.