Excuse Me, But I Think I'm Overdue a Rant.

All right, Nicaragua. Let's talk straight. Quite frankly, I'm at my wits' end with you and your LOUSY STINKING CUSTOMER SERVICE. Today I had to go to the bank to change a bill of 500 cordoba (approx $25) for smaller change so I could eat lunch, because the archive's cafeteria couldn't make change from a bill that big. I mean, how long should that take, right? Ok, well it was lunch time, and of course there was a little rush then, but seriously? I got there at the front end, and I was only third in line. Was there any reason that I had to wait 45 minutes? No, no, don't even try to answer me, I want none of your excuses. I think this disappointment was only exacerbated by the fact that you looked like such a big clean fancy bank from the outside. And indeed, getting in the bank was something akin to the process of gaining entrance to Fort Knox or a U.S. Embassy. With such a rigorous vetting process, walk-through metal detectors, armed guards, and such aggressive air conditioning in the entrance room, I felt my hopes rising, slowly but surely. Which was dumb, and I know that, but sometimes a girl can't help but hope that just maybe things will seem somewhat normal. You know, cause the way things happen in U.S. is "normal." Duh.

See, this is what really made me crazy. It's not like there was only one teller. Oh, no, there were, in fact, five or six tellers. One behind a sign that said "Retired People," one that said, "Checks only," one behind a sign that said "Bank Employees Only," and one behind a sign that said, "Fuck You, I'm Just Here to Drive You Crazy." So I stood there in the un-air-conditioned mosquito zone that passed for a lobby, at the front end of a line of about 40 people, staring at all you tellers just sitting there with NOTHING TO DO, and growing steadily more frustrated as the grandpa standing at the ONE WORKING TELLER WINDOW asked the teller dude to recount his FIVE MILLION cordobas about sixty times. And then he stood there and counted them himself. Twice. And then, just as he was almost done, he paused to tell an anecdote about his grandchildren which I'm sure was amusing but ARE YOU KIDDING ME. And then, whoops! he lost count and had to start all over again. And all this time, I'm staring at the 4 or 5 idle tellers who are doing ABSOLUTELY nothing except LITERALLY shooting spitballs at each other, and staring at the line of clients, and leaning across their cubicle dividers to tell each other funny stories, and one girl was FILING HER FUCKING NAILS. Seriously. What is this, a movie? I half-expected Mr. Bean to pop out of a corner at any moment, at which point I could take a deep breath, laugh to myself, and think, "Ah, I get it. This is all just to get a laugh." You want to know how bad this was? Even the Nicas in line with me were getting antsy, and that really takes some doing, as nightmarish customer service is completely normal around here.

OH! AND THE OTHER THING. Could we please just talk for a minute about the THREE ARMED GUARDS sitting on the couches in the bank like they're hanging out in their living room, all slouched down, whistling at the pretty girls that walk in, and talking about soccer, and BOUNCING THE BUTTS OF THEIR ASSAULT RIFLES ON THE GROUND ON ACCOUNT OF HOW FREAKING BORED THEY WERE? Has nobody in this country ANY idea about gun safety? Seriously, every day single day, I am repeatedly stunned by the cavalier treatment of murder weapons. Dude, do not PLAY with your gun. Do not swing it around, or hang it casually over your shoulder as if it were a purse with the barrel pointing DOWN. That shit is LOADED. I am standing NEAR YOU. I COULD DIE. So could you, but given your rank stupidity, you'd kind of deserve it. ARGH!

*breathing deeply, breathing deeply.*

Oh, my. I feel a lot better now, getting that off my chest. Thank you for listening; now back to your regularly scheduled Cheastypants.