Bank of America and Peanut Cock

The parking attendant at the Larchmont Branch of Bank of America his great attitude and congenial personality. I came here to cash a Cashier's Check drawn on this bank earlier this afternoon. The teller asked me if I wanted to open an account at Bank of America, and I politely declined. He then asked what institution I use for my banking needs, and I again told him that I was not interested in doing business with Bank of America. He then asked me for my index finger print and my SSN in order to fill out form 8300. He then asked what my occupation was, and I told him I was an executioner at San Quentin. All seemed to be going well until Peanut Cock, the manager came by and asked to see an additional form of identification. I offered him my California Fishing License which is a State Issued form of identification containing my name, address and birthdate. He told me I need my passport, and I was wondering if it was because we were about to go on a fucking power trip. I was correct. Without my passport, he refused to cash the check. So I went back home, brought it back, and eventually I got my money but suffered the indignity of having to deal with Peanut Cock (note: I am using the word "cock" in an avian context). Dude, I know you want to pretend like you are important because this is the Larchmont Branch, but you are merely a middle-management, check cashing and money changing jockey and a mighty confrontational one at that. I am sure you are also responsible for making customers who use your bank comfortable and happy with the services you offer. So dispense with highbrow attitude and follow your fucking job description and remember that in any retail business, the customer is always right. Hopefully, next time someone gives me a Cashier's Check, it will be drawn on a more friendly bank.