My new favorite credit card company, or how I learned to stop worrying and love the F-bomb

Don't ask me why, but I have three credit accounts with Wells Fargo.  This week, they charged me late fees and caused overlimit charges on all three, even though I paid the bills online, and informed me the charges will be sent through a third time on the wrong payment account -- after more than an hour of interrogating their "Customer Service" manager identified only as Tommy 3370, the only answer I could get out of him was that once a payment is scheduled online, it cannot be stopped even if the bills gets paid from another account.

I had discovered that the payments from one checking account were withdrawn at the same time as the late fees were charged to the other one, and it took me talking to FIVE people (including one hang up) to even get an answer as to why.  I had originally made the payments from the wrong checking account, prompting the first round of fees.  I made the changes on Wells Fargo's site, then rescheduled the payments -- but according to Tommy 3370, even if I had closed the original checking account (which I will), Wells Fargo could do nothing to stop the original payments from going through three times or until they are paid, whichever comes first.

So, I vainly tried to convince Tommy 3370 that his company is effectively screwing me for trying to do the right thing after my initial error.  He predicatably insisted his supervisor was not available, and would not tell me when he would be.  Go figure.

As it turned out, I discovered that Wells Fargo's customer service guys don't necessarily mind if you call their competence or intelligence into question.  Usinng words like "moron" or "idiot" is just fine -- but apparently dropping an occasional f-bomb isn't.  Who knew?  When I first started letting out the occasional vulgarity, the morons would politely ask me to stop using profanity -- which of course made me more upset, leading to more cursing.  Hey buddy, how about giving enough of a damn to solve my problem and not worrying about being offended there, Tommy 3370??  I don't really care if you like the f-bomb or not, because I've just spent an hour insulting you without it anyway -- apparently you're too stupid to realize that in the first place, pal.

When I was a fresh Soldier, my very first Platoon Sergeant (Jimmy "Groovy Man" Saunders) used to say, "swearing is a crutch for the conversationally impaired."  He was right, but I've often wondered why some people are offended by certain words.  Who really cares, and who really decides what is vulgar, profane, or obscene?  There is a difference - but religiously speaking, there is arguably nothing in the Bible (depending on your interpretation) that specifically prohibits saying words that conservatives have long since deemed offensive (this link still makes me giggle like a schoolboy).  The FCC is so concerned with protecting children from hearing those words on TV or radio that they hear from their friends anyway, but it's okay to use other words that mean the exact same things.  Think times are bad now?  When I was six, I got pulled out of Sunday School by my ear and got my mouth washed out with soap because the teacher thought the preacher's kid (me) should most decidedly not be whispering the f-bomb and giggling about it with his cousin.  (Sorry Mom, but it's a good thing you're not in my Tactical Operations Center this week.)  I never heard it on Gunsmoke or I Love Lucy, but I knew it anyway.  (What's the first dirty thing ever said on TV?  "Ward, I think you were a little hard on the Beaver last night.")

Western society has been entirely too worried about keeping kids from being desensitized to all the "dangers" of the modern world that it is little wonder we're all so messed up when we leave the nest and have to figure out how to deal with the harsh realities of life on our own.  So where do we draw the lines?  More importantly, do even we really need to draw those lines? 

As George Carlin used to say, "no thanks, I've already had a bar of soap."

A Tale of Two Boot Camps

About June 30, 1989, I was one of several hundred newly-shaved Army recruits suffering through Day 0 of Basic Training in the sticky, summer heat of Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri.* Sometime shortly after lunch, we rode in sardine-packed silence in the “cattle truck,” (which was rated to hold 50 of us with gear but held 80) from the Reception Center to our new home for the next 8 weeks. With Drill Sergeants barking orders and telling us we have “5 seconds and the first three are gone” to do the duffle-bag drag from bus to formation to barracks, those that failed to comply with said orders earned the privilege to perform some random exercise like pushups, flutter kicks, jumping jacks, or whatever in the boiling Midwestern sun.

Although I was quite used to Florida humidity, my last uniform consisted of a whistle and swim trunks, not boots and long pants. As recruits buckled and fell to the ground like flour sacks from the heat, medics would rush water to them while the Drills continued to bark. After the shake-down inspection to ensure everyone had every necessary t-shirt, sock, bootlace, helmet cover, and canteen, we were herded to our barracks rooms for more barking, where I distinctly remember doing pushups in a puddle of my own sweat and determining that inside was not much cooler than out. The shock of it all was, to say the least, overwhelming.

Fast-forward to last week. Our younger son is now carrying the torch as a trainee in Air Force Basic Training at Lackland AFB, Texas. His first call to us was all of three minutes, to give us his address – and he was uncharacteristically emotional, cracking up as soon as he heard our voices. The past weekend was a longer call and a much more cheerful voice on the line as he explained that although the weather is very hot, they do not march or even stand at attention if outside conditions are “red flag” or “black flag,” the two most severe Wet Bulb Globe Temperature categories that reflect heat and humidity.  I was not surprised, but I’m sure on my Day 0 none of my Drills paid much attention to the heat, let alone flag colors.

But I also will never forget the way my shaved head felt on the green-wool blanket on that first lonesome night, as I tried vainly to sleep at the position of attention to avoid my Drill’s wrath.  Or, even more vividly, marching  and signing in cadence -- which has to be one of the funnest parts of Boot Camp -- to "B-6-10, B-6-10! Late at night when I'm sleeping there's a Drill Sergeant creeping all around..."

Our son appears to have overcome the initial shock of “what the hell did I get myself into” that I knew all too well – and is beginning the adventure of his life as he trains to be a Pararescueman. Raise a glass for him tonight.


*a.ka. "Fort Lost-in-the-Woods, Misery"