The Wells Fargo Girls Are Aces

I’ve been feeling a bit guilty lately. I know, I know, “guilt” and “regret” are the two most futile emotions in the universe. I’ve basically been good, you know, I’ve discarded all the naughty nights for niceness and I give upwards of $9 to charities when I have it. Yet, here I am feeling guilty about making fun of the girls at Wells Fargo.

And why those girls? There are a plethora of girls in Richfield who actually deserve to be ridiculed, what with the hair and the clothes... But the Well Fargo girls? They’ve always been there for me. Always. I guess it started a few months back.

I went in to Wells Fargo one Friday. I asked for $20 out of my account. A nice girl said I did not have $20, rather I only had $14.82. “Wow,” I said embarrassingly. “I thought I had more than that. I guess no single malt scotch for me. I’ll have to buy the blended stuff.” She just smiled and said, “We can’t have that now, can we?” She reached in to her drawer and pulled out a few twenties, threw them on my $14, and whispered, “Here. Have a good weekend.” They do that all the time now.

Or there was the time I sold my soul to the devil. Long story short, I sold my soul for the ability to write hilarious e-mails. I was going to just pawn my soul but the guy at Cedar Post Pawn was being kind of a dick. Anyway, like most people who sell their soul to the devil, I just forgot all about it. Well, one night there was a knock-knock-knock at the door. It was Satan. He looked scary! I mean, no big surprise, I knew he would, but we’re talking really scary! Ozzie Osbourne doesn’t do this guy justice! Anyway, he came in and said it was time for me to go. I didn’t want to go, obviously, but I am the one who just had to have the gift of writing really funny e-mails. It was my own doing. There was no one to blame but me. Just as I lowered my head and started to follow him down to the dark netherworld, I heard voices say, “Not so fast Mephistopheles!” It was the Wells Fargo girls! They were coming to save me! I must have blacked out, because I woke up safe, in my bed, and with my soul intact.

There’s also the re-occurring dream I have almost every night. I’m in a car wreck (again) and I’m laying there in a pool of blood. I keep bleeding, I keep, keep, bleeding and I think this is the end. Just as I am about to surrender to unconsciousness, I hear voices. Females voices. It’s the Wells Fargo girls! “Don’t go toward the light, Don! Stay away from the light!” Then I wake up.

The Wells Fargo girls are aces. You couldn’t ask for a better set of gals. They’re pretty, smart and moral. The Wells Fargo girls always favor an embargo over an air strike. They would only do nudity if it was A: tastefully done, and B: necessary to the story. They’re the best. When I’m sick, who comes over and makes chicken soup? The Wells Fargo girls. When I got out of the hospital, who put Vitamin E on my scars? The Wells Fargo girls. When I ignored Dave Madden’s advice and I totally did it with Jessica Alba and I did, in fact, get bugs, who went to the pharmacy to get that special shampoo because I was too embarrassed? The Wells Fargo girls.

When I die, and stay dead this time, I fully expect to be welcomed by angels and the Wells Fargo girls. What the hell’s the matter with me? I don’t even think I can show my face in there anymore. I don’t even deserve them. I’m just saying…