Letter to My Bank

Dear Bank:
Frankly, I don’t like your jazzy new glass building and your bare counters with not a greenback visible to show what line of business you are in. What was wrong with the moneypacked tellers’ cages watched over by a grim guard who always made me feel like a bandit when I crept in to pay the interest on my note? You just don’t look and act like a bank any more, and I am confused.
My thrifty grandfather did not have to be bribed to open a savings account with a satellite piggy bank that beeps when a dime is dropped into it, and he would have shot that radio announcer of yours who keeps needling me to borrow what he laughingly calls “yenom” (money spelled backwards). I’m glad Granddaddy was not around last December to see those scantily-clad babes and the fat Santa Claus skating on that artificial ice rink in your lobby. I half expect this Easter that your cashier will be dressed in a bunny rabbit costume and will hand me a bag of licorice jelly beans when I come in nervously to discuss my mortgage problem.
I have always been awed by banky-looking banks; that is why I trusted them. When I wanted to negotiate a loan, I faced a steelyeyed miser who made me squirm while he pursed his lips and mentally calculated his chances of ever getting a nickel back. It was a harrowing experience, but it strengthened my character and taught me the value of a dollar. Now, to judge from your joviai advertising (which suggests I could do with two new cars and a 39-foot cabin cruiser), I have a feeling that if I phoned you from a drugstore for some cash, you would rush me a hatbox full of it via Conover model, who would jokingly ask me if I were gainfully employed before handing over the bundle.
My wife takes a dim view of this. She has also warned me against patronizing your drive-in department. She says that if I get so slovenly about money matters that I can’t; march into your fish bowl and stand quietly and respectfully in line, she is going back to stuffing our moola in the mattress.