So you think you’re so smart stealing my credit card number, huh? Well, you’re anything BUT smart. In fact, your attempts at using my card so far have revealed you to be little more than a sister-fucking, sphincter-suckling retard. With bad hair.
Let me give you a little hint about fraud protection: It looks for out-of-character purchases. And it nips them in the bud with alarming efficiency.
For instance, you tried to use my card to buy airline tickets on a carrier I never use to shuttle you between two cities I’ve never been in. The charge was disputed before you even wiped the spoo off your face from giving your prison-bitch dad a celebratory blowjob. Then you tried to use my card to buy Super Bowl tickets. Super Bowl tickets. Do you have any idea what a red flag that is? My lifetime activity on the card number you stole has been nothing but business trips to a small circle of cities, tickets to big faggy musicals, automatic payments to gay-friendly mutual funds and designer shoes at alarmingly discounted prices. I realize that show-tune queens have been known to enjoy football (these people invariably describe themselves as “straight-acting”), but in the world of fraudulent charges, musicals are to the Super Bowl as abortions are to “Lord’s Gym” T-shirts. (Maybe that’s not the most accurate parallel, given the pathological hypocrisy of the thumper crowd—but I think “Lord’s Gym” T-shirts are pretty funny so I’m not gonna rewrite it.)
Anyway, your little party is over. I just changed all my card numbers, put fraud alerts on all my bank accounts, and contacted all three credit bureaus to tell them that you nursed until you were 15 and you cry when you pee.
So stop wasting your time trying to outsmart me. And stop wasting my time dealing with it. I’m too busy dreaming up ways to punch-fuck bowling balls up your ass before I really start laying into you when you get caught.