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SUNDAY SAUCE: Bank of Too Many Fees

Published:Sunday | March 6, 2011 | 12:00 AM

Oxy Moron, Contributor

I was in a predicament the other day. You see, I was trying to evade the Bank of Too Many Fees (BTMF). But, it seemed to have had branches at ATM booths all over the place. And why was I running scared, you might ask? It was the bank and not the police.

Well, as bad as some police officers are, they have never charged me for looking at them, or for anything, for that matter. But, that was what BTMF seemed to have been doing to me. Apparently, it has cameras projected from all its structures, and every time I, Oxy Moron, passed by them, I was taped and charged, just for passing by.

Insane? But, how else can I explain the multiplicity of miscellaneous fees that have been bilked from my two accounts at BTMF over the years, as discovered recently.

Hasty retreat

In my anger, I went to my branch to investigate, and I, Oxy Moron, was stunned by the types of fees BTMF was charging me. The woman with whom I spoke told me that the bank had always been charging these fees, and that unfortunately the list of fees cannot be published regularly because they change frequently. With that, I beat a hasty retreat because it seemed my very presence in BTMF would have incurred a fee, and that was why I was avoiding BTMF.

However, I was soon to get the shock of my life to learn that even staying away from BTMF would attract a penalty as long as my active account is below a certain minimum.

So, I took a certain decision, because I promised no one that I, Oxy Moron, could continue to pretend to be a gentleman, if I were told, upon my next visit, that the missing money from my account was taken for fees for entering the bank or ATM booths, allowing the security officer to open the door, drinking BTMF half-cold water, watching its mounted HD-TV, being in its air-conditioned space, waiting in the line for one hour, speaking with the teller, swiping the card, and exiting the building.

With an abundance of joy, I took out my passbooks, my ATM card, and a pair of scissors. As I cut away at the sources of my discontent, I repeated the words of the minister of finance, "Not one red cent more!"

I am now free to walk the land of my birth. The red imperialist is no longer a factor in my equation. Hip, hip ... !!

oxydmoron@gmail.com