I got something in the mail, some debt collector out of Oklahoma offering me some settlement on a credit card I never had. Someone stole my identity. Good for them. I hope they bought TV’s and Xboxes and got huge cash advances for massage parlors where they could prematurely ejaculate into some Korean sex slave. I only wish I didn’t have the ethical hangups that keep me from doing that kind of shit.
But now I have to call… not the debt collector, because if you’ve ever dealt with any kind of debt collector, you know they will give you no information. They’re like one of those grass seeds that gets up a dog’s nose; little thorns and barbs that make it only slide further up when you grab at it. Get some kind of admission from you of who you are and take this as an agreement that it’s your debt and bug you and bug you and bug you. They are masterful about this. Well, it is under your name sir, and you are liable. No, I have to call Citibank; I have to pay for a credit report, I have to identify in whatever jargon is used thereupon what item matches up with a Citibank credit card. The amount won’t be the same. The debt collector just makes up some huge amount and knocks off most of it to make it look like a deal. Then one in one thousand checks roll in. Free money. From a person so stupid and unsophisticated they think any official looking letter is gospel. Free money from the only sort of person who really needs it. Continue reading
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