Tender Crispy Visa Bacon Ranch

I hate my credit card company. I hate my credit card company for no reason other than that they routinely raise my limit, knowing full well that each time they do this it gives me no end of grief. The reason why the raising of my personal credit limit gives me no end of grief will now be dutifully illustrated via cumbersome simile: It is like putting a starving orphan in an Old Country Buffet full of signs that read, "If you touch this a bad man will come chop off your hand!" It is like tying a hunk of cheese to a cute little mouse's tail and telling him that it's laced with cyanide, knowing fully well that mice can't understand you and that he probably wouldn't believe you even if he did understand. It is like luring a baby seal to you with a frozen mackerel and then clubbing it to death with said mackerel. It is like creating life and free will but then making up a bunch of rules that no one can follow and telling them they are going to burn in hell for eternity. It is like giving a man a free Ipod Shuffle.

Ok, I may have gotten a little off track, but simply put, I could fly myself down to New Zealand and vacation myself silly in Auckland for three weeks and no one would stop me because some company in Milwaukee says I'm good for it, and this knowledge, as Marshall Mathers might say, tears my ass apart in a very figurative but still meaningful way.

Seriously though, what good is an Ipod Shuffle? For a hundred bucks I'll take a month's week's supply of PBR, or barring that, a hooker with bad teeth.

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