One of my long-term investments finally paid off today, dear reader, and it was a beautiful thing.  For the past two decades, whenever I’ve opened an online account and had to answer those stupid security questions, I always pick “What city were you born in?”  To which my reply has been, consistently, since the previous century: “None of your fucking business.”  Because 1) it’s not, and 2) it’s just not…and if you’re going to be nervy enough to attempt to blatantly extract personal identification from me, you’d better be prepared for an appropriate response (maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you about what my answer is for “Name of your first pet”).
So today I had to call a cable company that I used to do business with.  Our parting was acrimonious.  And it was very clearly final.  But sometimes on the weekends I like to call businesses who have done me dirty and cuss them out again, just as a reminder.  It’s cathartic.  So it warmed my heart, dearest reader, to tell this poor sap who had the misfortune of taking my call and asking me, “sir, for security purposes, what’s the name of the city you were born in?”
“None of your fucking business.”
“Okay…perfect.  How can help you today?”
Poetry.

N.P.: “Man on the Silver Mountain” – Rainbow