Evil banks

In solidarity with c-bizzkit, I'm posting an article I wrote for the McGill Tribune when I was a columnist for them many years ago. I would also like to mention that this article helped me score chicks; my woman read this years before she met me and decided that whoever wrote it must be a real hot shit. And so when we met and she found out that I was the person who wrote it, we broke out the champagne then and there, toasted eternal love borne of anti-corporate bitterness, and we've never looked back. Or something like that.

Take the Money and Run

I offer today’s words not as a radically original worldview, nor as especially
insightful economic commentary, but rather as a well-deserved reiteration of something that has frequently been observed, and which is quite apparent after even a moment’s reflection: In this country, a few big banks run the world, and their power comes at the expense of their customers.
Once upon a time, when I was a lad, I had a paper route. I would put the money I earned (less what I spent on hookers) into my savings account at the local savings bank. This was a great arrangement. I kept my money there, and the bank said, “Thank you for entrusting us with your hard-earned money. We shall reward you by paying you a small percentage of the amount you have in our bank. We shall call this “interest”.” It was a wonderful thing. And get a load of this – when I needed money, I actually went to the bank and withdrew cash from my account. Service with a smile, everyone was happy.
What the hell happened?
Today, there are about four banks in the whole country. No one uses cash; the
banks have convinced us there’s no need. Instead, they’ve fostered a blind dependency on bank and Interac cards. All banking is done through machines: withdrawals, deposits, transfers between accounts. The people running the show would rather have a sharp stick in the eye than a customer actually physically present at their bank. And the real kick in the ass is that, after forcing these bank cards on you in the name of convenience, they turn around and charge you for using them!
I have tried to fight the system, but it is an uphill battle. In Montreal, I have an account at a large downtown bank, whose name I will not divulge, except to say that it rhymes with “Stotia Bank”, its address is 1002 Sherbrooke West, and its phone number is 499-5432. I opened the account for one purpose alone: so I could have a place to cash my paychecks. The problem is, however, that whenever I go to the bank to perform this seemingly simple task, turmoil ensues, because I refuse to get a (rhymes with) “StotiaCard”. Every month, when I go to cash a check, a scene like the following occurs:
I head to the back of the line-up, which stretches virtually to Nova Scotia, because this bank, which occupies an entire skyscraper, apparently never has more than one teller working. When it finally is my turn, I tell them I’d like to cash a check, and present them with my savings account passbook. It is looked at with scorn.
Them: “Can I see your card?”
Me: “ I don’t have one.”
Looks of disbelief and contempt. It is announced that they will “need to see some identification”. After producing several pieces of photo ID, a copy of my birth certificate, a wedding picture of my parents, and my junior high locker combination, it is determined that this is still not sufficient “identification”. The teller nods to the nurse on duty. She springs onto action. Blood is drawn and centrifuged. They check for minor antigens and cross-reference the results with my Hema-Quebec blood donor file. I’m asked to pee in a cup right there in front of all the other customers. I’m just zipping up when Nurse Hathoway’s evil twin jabs a syringe into the base of my skull and fills it up with nerve cells from my brain stem. They are sent off to be carbon dated to see if they match the information on my birth certificate.
Eventually it is verified that I am who I say I am, my check is cashed and I am
released, begrudgingly. I stumble out onto the street, more shaken up than Bond’s martini. But I raise my fist to the sun, clutching a $20 bill and shouting victory. The war is not over, but I have won another battle. Think of me the next time you use your Interac card to pay for a candy bar at the dep…