Profile for persnickety:
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Yeah, I'm not gonna fill this out.
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» Banks
Signed, Hank
I worked in a bank when I was a naïve 19 year old. I hated working there for many reasons, but mostly it was the dress code; stockings, heels and skirts, really annoyed me. Pantyhose just make me want to scratch my ass and standing in a pair of pumps all day is murder on your arches.
As I was working the lobby window one day, a man came in, handed me some cash through the Plexiglas window and told me to give him rolled change in exchange for the wad of cash. Yes, how shocking I know. But at the conclusion of the “currency” portion of our transaction, he handed me another slip of paper, a deposit slip torn in half. Now, I was young and green, but even I knew that when a nervous man slips you a note and you’re a bank teller, maybe you should hit the deck. I didn’t though, instead I read the note right there in front of him. The note read, “What’s under that skirt? Signed, Hank”
Oooh, this was exciting. I looked up and Hank was walking out of the lobby. I wanted to call out for him, make some excuse that he had forgotten his receipt or something, but I was frozen, and he walked out onto the busy street outside.
I thought about Hank constantly. I volunteered to work the lobby window every day, sometimes even covering lobby and drive thru myself just so I would be able to see him again.
Finally, 12 days later, Hank walked in again and I almost ran to the window. He was calm cool and collected, passed me the cash through the window same as before. And again, when we were done, he passed me a note, “What’s under that skirt?”
Okay, now I was officially hot for Hank. Before he left this time though, I stopped him, “When can I show you?” was all I said. He looked me in the eye, turned and walked out the door.
What the fuck?
Again, I anxiously await Hank’s return. This time, it was 10 days later. Same thing. Same note. Same exit.
This guy was driving me crazy! A week later he came in and I stopped him before he handed me the cash. I said, “Hank, when do you want to find out the answer to your question?”
He said, “How about right now?” This perplexed me, because we were, after all, in a bank during the middle of the day. I was hoping for a late supper and candlelit bath perhaps.
Hank repeated what he’d said, and then slipped me another note, “I know what’s under that skirt and it’s not brains, now get a fucking bag and fill it with cash. Right fucking now.”
I froze. I was frozen. Completely frozen. I didn’t know what to despite being trained in this sort of scenario by bank management. I tried to speak but I couldn’t. Before I knew it, Hank was grabbed from behind by our enormous security guard and thrown to the ground. Someone else got spooked by Hank or saw my reaction and rang the silent alarm as I stood there paralyzed for what felt like an eternity. The local police came, the state police came, even a local FBI field agent showed up. I was interrogated by ALL of them and even though I didn’t know Hank, it was determined I had prior knowledge of his intent and I was fired.
Hank, on the off chance that you’re reading this, I’d still like to show you what’s under my skirt.
(Mon 20th Jul 2009, 20:23, More)
Signed, Hank
I worked in a bank when I was a naïve 19 year old. I hated working there for many reasons, but mostly it was the dress code; stockings, heels and skirts, really annoyed me. Pantyhose just make me want to scratch my ass and standing in a pair of pumps all day is murder on your arches.
As I was working the lobby window one day, a man came in, handed me some cash through the Plexiglas window and told me to give him rolled change in exchange for the wad of cash. Yes, how shocking I know. But at the conclusion of the “currency” portion of our transaction, he handed me another slip of paper, a deposit slip torn in half. Now, I was young and green, but even I knew that when a nervous man slips you a note and you’re a bank teller, maybe you should hit the deck. I didn’t though, instead I read the note right there in front of him. The note read, “What’s under that skirt? Signed, Hank”
Oooh, this was exciting. I looked up and Hank was walking out of the lobby. I wanted to call out for him, make some excuse that he had forgotten his receipt or something, but I was frozen, and he walked out onto the busy street outside.
I thought about Hank constantly. I volunteered to work the lobby window every day, sometimes even covering lobby and drive thru myself just so I would be able to see him again.
Finally, 12 days later, Hank walked in again and I almost ran to the window. He was calm cool and collected, passed me the cash through the window same as before. And again, when we were done, he passed me a note, “What’s under that skirt?”
Okay, now I was officially hot for Hank. Before he left this time though, I stopped him, “When can I show you?” was all I said. He looked me in the eye, turned and walked out the door.
What the fuck?
Again, I anxiously await Hank’s return. This time, it was 10 days later. Same thing. Same note. Same exit.
This guy was driving me crazy! A week later he came in and I stopped him before he handed me the cash. I said, “Hank, when do you want to find out the answer to your question?”
He said, “How about right now?” This perplexed me, because we were, after all, in a bank during the middle of the day. I was hoping for a late supper and candlelit bath perhaps.
Hank repeated what he’d said, and then slipped me another note, “I know what’s under that skirt and it’s not brains, now get a fucking bag and fill it with cash. Right fucking now.”
I froze. I was frozen. Completely frozen. I didn’t know what to despite being trained in this sort of scenario by bank management. I tried to speak but I couldn’t. Before I knew it, Hank was grabbed from behind by our enormous security guard and thrown to the ground. Someone else got spooked by Hank or saw my reaction and rang the silent alarm as I stood there paralyzed for what felt like an eternity. The local police came, the state police came, even a local FBI field agent showed up. I was interrogated by ALL of them and even though I didn’t know Hank, it was determined I had prior knowledge of his intent and I was fired.
Hank, on the off chance that you’re reading this, I’d still like to show you what’s under my skirt.
(Mon 20th Jul 2009, 20:23, More)
» Gyms
no shirt, no shoes, no merkins
After my ass trembling session of Power Yoga I retreated to the YMCA ladies locker room to shower. I considered my stench a personal best as far as body odor goes and I wanted to jump in the pool stench free in consideration of my fellow swimmers. I’m not some gross sociopath who wishes to pollute the pool with all my stinky cooties.
As I walk past the steam room, I see it. Taped on the steam room door, is a laminated sign that reads, “Please, there is no shaving allowed in the steam room. No lotions or oils inside.” This sign is new. It wasn’t here the last time I was in the ladies locker room.
Do you know what that means? Let me explain. Since I was last in this YMCA, someone brought in a razor and shaving cream and attempted, or possibly succeeded, in depilitating the hair on their body. The most likely scenario is the legs.
Maybe.
The other possibility is the pubic region and perhaps the anus as well.
My YMCA is top o’ the line. It’s not some bus station bathroom where transients freshen up in the community sinks and comb the lice out of their hair with a desiccated fishbone.
I have tended to my hirsute frame in many bathrooms and even a few kitchens on occasion. But I have never been tempted to shave my pits, legs, bush or corn hole in the public arena. Even when I pay to get a wax, the tiny room has only two inhabitants, the shameless Russian immigrant dripping hot wax onto my beaver, and me.
What type of woman brings her grooming into a public steam room? She is no friend of mine I’ll tell you that. Already I feel I see too much of the women in the locker room. Stretch marks, abdominal scars, ingrown hairs, cellulite, ass pimples and lots and lots of tits. The towels are plentiful. Ladies, please take one. Or two.
Back to the exhibitionist shaver. What’s the demographic? She could be older I guess.
Maybe someone divorced who’s clearly put a good distance between herself and someone who actually gives a shit about what others think.
Maybe she’s someone younger who’s ignorant to the etiquette of such personal grooming nuances. Someone raised on porn who feels it’s perfectly acceptable to offer the world a calling card of freshly shaved gash as you’re looking to sweat out some chicken tikka or paneer.
Maybe she’s an asshole. A hairy asshole.
(Fri 10th Jul 2009, 18:58, More)
no shirt, no shoes, no merkins
After my ass trembling session of Power Yoga I retreated to the YMCA ladies locker room to shower. I considered my stench a personal best as far as body odor goes and I wanted to jump in the pool stench free in consideration of my fellow swimmers. I’m not some gross sociopath who wishes to pollute the pool with all my stinky cooties.
As I walk past the steam room, I see it. Taped on the steam room door, is a laminated sign that reads, “Please, there is no shaving allowed in the steam room. No lotions or oils inside.” This sign is new. It wasn’t here the last time I was in the ladies locker room.
Do you know what that means? Let me explain. Since I was last in this YMCA, someone brought in a razor and shaving cream and attempted, or possibly succeeded, in depilitating the hair on their body. The most likely scenario is the legs.
Maybe.
The other possibility is the pubic region and perhaps the anus as well.
My YMCA is top o’ the line. It’s not some bus station bathroom where transients freshen up in the community sinks and comb the lice out of their hair with a desiccated fishbone.
I have tended to my hirsute frame in many bathrooms and even a few kitchens on occasion. But I have never been tempted to shave my pits, legs, bush or corn hole in the public arena. Even when I pay to get a wax, the tiny room has only two inhabitants, the shameless Russian immigrant dripping hot wax onto my beaver, and me.
What type of woman brings her grooming into a public steam room? She is no friend of mine I’ll tell you that. Already I feel I see too much of the women in the locker room. Stretch marks, abdominal scars, ingrown hairs, cellulite, ass pimples and lots and lots of tits. The towels are plentiful. Ladies, please take one. Or two.
Back to the exhibitionist shaver. What’s the demographic? She could be older I guess.
Maybe someone divorced who’s clearly put a good distance between herself and someone who actually gives a shit about what others think.
Maybe she’s someone younger who’s ignorant to the etiquette of such personal grooming nuances. Someone raised on porn who feels it’s perfectly acceptable to offer the world a calling card of freshly shaved gash as you’re looking to sweat out some chicken tikka or paneer.
Maybe she’s an asshole. A hairy asshole.
(Fri 10th Jul 2009, 18:58, More)
» School Projects
Thanks for the gift
When I was an adorable 5 year old girl in kindergarten I brought in my favorite toy for "Show and Tell." I was a fan of Sesame Street and my favorite toy was this vinyl expandable tube / tunnel with Snuffleupagus all over it. The fun part was to roll out the tube, the curvier the better and crawl through it on your tiny hands and knees. You felt so triumphant when you made it to the end. Okay, maybe I was retarded, but I LOVED this and was SO excited when my family said I could bring it to school.
So I excitedly bring it to my teacher, and she helps me unroll it and set it up in the middle of the classroom. She promises me we will play later.
When it came time to play in the Snuffleupagus tube, I jumped up like a spaz and crawled in. I made it about halfway in to discover one of my kindergarten classmates had taken a shit in it. They took a shit in my Snuffleupagus tube.
(Thu 13th Aug 2009, 16:41, More)
Thanks for the gift
When I was an adorable 5 year old girl in kindergarten I brought in my favorite toy for "Show and Tell." I was a fan of Sesame Street and my favorite toy was this vinyl expandable tube / tunnel with Snuffleupagus all over it. The fun part was to roll out the tube, the curvier the better and crawl through it on your tiny hands and knees. You felt so triumphant when you made it to the end. Okay, maybe I was retarded, but I LOVED this and was SO excited when my family said I could bring it to school.
So I excitedly bring it to my teacher, and she helps me unroll it and set it up in the middle of the classroom. She promises me we will play later.
When it came time to play in the Snuffleupagus tube, I jumped up like a spaz and crawled in. I made it about halfway in to discover one of my kindergarten classmates had taken a shit in it. They took a shit in my Snuffleupagus tube.
(Thu 13th Aug 2009, 16:41, More)
» The most childish thing you've done as an adult
eat me
I love to cook. I even cook fancy grown up things, but frequently, when i bake cookies or cakes, I will shape the delicious treat into a cock or a boob or sometimes even a vulva. Then I decorate them painstakingly and use a little white icing to make them look as if someone's blown a giant wad of jizz on them.
(Thu 17th Sep 2009, 15:46, More)
eat me
I love to cook. I even cook fancy grown up things, but frequently, when i bake cookies or cakes, I will shape the delicious treat into a cock or a boob or sometimes even a vulva. Then I decorate them painstakingly and use a little white icing to make them look as if someone's blown a giant wad of jizz on them.
(Thu 17th Sep 2009, 15:46, More)