Just ran into George Michael over at the Washington Mutual at Knight Street and Lemmon Avenue. I almost didn't recognize him, considering he looks like a wax approximation of what George Michael is supposed to look like.
I was filling out my deposit slip when I heard someone with an English accent quietly arguing with a teller. As I am a shameless Anglophile, I glanced up to get a better look. There was a neatly dressed man with what was, I must say, a remarkable ass, wearing gray slacks and a white shirt, tucked in. What gave him away? His well-manicured facial hair.
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He seemed to be trying to pull off some kind of transfer, but I don't think it went through. He left WaMu with no receipt in hand, just a little brown shopping bag. I believe dear Georgie has had a fair bit of work done as, facially, the man was remarkably taut. The bilingual teller with the broken arm seemed to have no idea she'd just had a brush with fame. After all, is there a glorious hole in all the world that wouldn't speak George's name with anything but the utmost of reverence? --Andrea Grimes