The Wells Fargo wagon is a-comin’ down the street. Or at least I got an email from Wells Fargo telling me a statement was available online, which intrigued me because I had no recollection of having any accounts with the repentant fraudsters (a credit card and our mortgage from our former life in Connecticut both being defunct). Turns out I have a SEP IRA with the bank which I’d forgotten about, which is not enough to retire on but is enough to buy the cream-colored retro Shinola Guardian watch I’ve been lusting after. All I have to do is wait till age 70½ and it’s all mine, and maybe even the yellow Pontiac Aztek of my dreams too.
My wife asked one day last week what I’d say if I actually met Resident Evil. Fortunately I am always prepared for this extremely unlikely eventuality–during the Dubya years, it was going to be just, “Mr. President. I hope you and the First Lady are well,” while refusing to shake his hand, but now it would have to be something special. Not shaking his hand, of course, is a given, unless I could spit in my hand first, but for the words I can’t do better than “Mr. President, please resign,” and hope he asked why: “Because you’re weak, corrupt, a Russian puppet, a disgusting human being, and you lie with every breath.” He wouldn’t ask, of course. I’d have to settle for spitting.