WellsFargo is an alien transplantation & i love it

Theory:

Rather than subject them to random drug tests, WellsFargo keeps its employees happily medicated on ecstasy and morphine.

or

WellsFargo is the first successful undetected (until now) alien workforce (not from mexico) functioning as human.

Why?

I have never walked into a WellsFargo (whether it be Bank or grocery store kiosk) and transacted with an angry/moody/disgruntled employee. Every person has been young, helpful, and smiles at a ratio much higher than that of the normal population. They’re also usually very attractive, perhaps a factor related to the constant shower of pleasantries.

Went to deposit this summer’s earnings (400 cash, yehaw, whoever said babysitting didn’t pay well?) and the guy asked where i went to school, what I was doing with my summer, and even guessed that I was graduating from 12th grade rather than 8th grade (take that Subway boy*).

The Other Offspring agrees. WellsFargo is an unnaturally happy institution. If therapists sent their patients to the bank to deposite money instead of cross examined them on a couch for $100/hr, world peace would be real. It is impossible to walk out of a transaction with a WellsFargo employee (at least in this city) without feeling a little bit giddy. Did that just happen? I met a happy young employee? And they were helpful?

Really, the company should capitalize on their atmospheric success. New mantra: "WellsFargo. We’ll leave you feeling mugged of all your ill will. our smile is better for the ego than breast enhancement surgery, our competency is good for your skin, and if you sign with us now we’ll give you a free hug before you walk out the door."

*EDIT: just realized I forgot to explain Subway Boy.

The Other Offspring and I stopped at Subway for dinner at around 7 on a wednesday night after a late lacrosse game. I ordered as The Other Offspring went to the bathroom. The boy at the counter asked me if that was my older sister. Sigh. No, says I, that is my younger sister. I know, I know. I’m actually graduating from high school this year.

*Subway Boy’s eyes bug, jaw drops, and size 72 question mark and exclamation points appear over his head in a conveniently materialized thought bubble*.

My sister’s a sophomore. In high school. … …. why grade did you think I was in? "EIGHTH!" *begrudged sigh from me* Nope. *Other Offspring returns from bathroom* *Subway Boy oggles, flicks eyes back as if looking for ‘which one of these is different’* Subway Boy: "Louis! Come here. Tell me, is that girl a senior?" *friend shakes head no* "She is! She is!"

*Subway Boy tells how everyone thinks he is older than his brother* How old are you, 23? asks I. "19!" Oh, wow.

I suck at estimating age. My da’s friend’s kid and his friend met us at the beach one day, only I operated most of the day thinking that the kid’s friend was his father. I asked The Other Offspring if that was his father and she cracked her sides and after a slow recovery went and held it over my head for the rest of my life. But I accept this story as evidence that Cops would do better to rely on their own imaginations than ask what colour make and year car suspect was driving and what he looked like "tall, stout, white, 65?". me: "Um. A black … boxy car…and he looked…human?"