Interview from Matt Allred about the 3MM comic.  Read it here!



Perilous Situation


As I have mentioned before, I don’t enjoy going to the bank.  Our local financial institution is staffed by Scary Bank Ladies, all of whom hate me because I make their lives complicated.

But once again, I had received several checks that were made out to me, personally, instead of to my business name.  Since they needed to be deposited into the business account, it meant I had to go once more into the actual bank branch and perform the incredibly complicated wheedling, form-filling-out and other rigamarole required to deposit a check made out to myself into a business account owned by myself.

As if the Scary Bank Ladies were not intimidating enough, our bank now has this new high-tech security entryway.  You walk through one door, and let it close behind you. You are now in a box of bulletproof glass with a metal detector.  You pass through the metal detector, and if you are not detected to be carrying weaponry, you can then pass through the second door and enter the bank proper.

So I walked through the first door, and let it close behind me.  Then I walked past the metal detector to the second door and pushed, but the door would not open.  Tried again.  Door would not open.

Looked behind me.  Previous door had closed just fine.  I could see the Scary Bank Ladies through the glass but they all seemed to be ignoring me.  As usual.

Well, I did have a lot of metal on me.  Phone, an overly large bunch of keys, belt buckle.  I stepped back through the metal detector and dropped the keys on the floor, then went back and pushed the door.  Still wouldn’t open.

Somewhat frustrated now, I went back and left my phone behind. Still no luck.

I wasn’t about to take my pants off, so I, now somewhat frustrated, shoved on the door, then rapped on it.  At this point I noticed all the Scary Bank Ladies were watching me.  Some of them appeared to be choking. I indicated via signals that the door would not open.

The SBL nearest me then pointed over her counter at the door itself.  I looked down at the handle to see, in nice, large, clear letters, the word: PULL.

Hilarity ensued.  But not on my part.

I’m never leaving the house again.

— Bob out.