Mopar Vince
Well-Known Member
President Barack Obama, surrounded by his normal retinue of Secret Service agents, walks into the Chicago branch office of a regional bank to cash a check.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says to the cashier. “I’d like to cash this check.”
“Of course, sir,” she replies. “Do you have your drivers license?”
“Actually, no,” Obama says. “I didn’t drive myself and, honestly, I didn’t think I’d need to show any ID. I mean, I am the president.”
“Yes, sir, I know who you are. But I’m afraid that, federal banking regulations being what they are, I’ll need to see a photo ID.”
Obama sighs in consternation.
“But just ask anyone at the bank,” he says. “They all know who I am. Everybody knows who I am.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but rules are rules.”
“Please, there must be something you can do. I need to cash this check so I can buy Michelle a Valentine’s Day present.”
The cashier thinks for a minute.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. President. Two weeks ago, Tiger Woods was here and in the same situation. He proved who he was by making an amazing putt all the way across the bank lobby into a coffee cup.
“Then, just last week, Andre Agassi had to prove who he was, so he used his tennis racket and lobbed a ball all the way across the bank lobby into that same coffee cup.
“In both cases, we took that as identification and cashed their checks,” she explained.
“So, Mr. President, is there something you can do that would prove that you are, indeed, Barrack Hussein Obama, president of the United States?” she asked.
Obama stands in front of her for a moment, frowning in thought.
“You know, he says, I can’t think of a thing. My mind is a total blank. I have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation,” he says. “Seriously. No clue at all.”
The cashier smiles.
“Will that be large or small bills, Mr. President?” she asks.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says to the cashier. “I’d like to cash this check.”
“Of course, sir,” she replies. “Do you have your drivers license?”
“Actually, no,” Obama says. “I didn’t drive myself and, honestly, I didn’t think I’d need to show any ID. I mean, I am the president.”
“Yes, sir, I know who you are. But I’m afraid that, federal banking regulations being what they are, I’ll need to see a photo ID.”
Obama sighs in consternation.
“But just ask anyone at the bank,” he says. “They all know who I am. Everybody knows who I am.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but rules are rules.”
“Please, there must be something you can do. I need to cash this check so I can buy Michelle a Valentine’s Day present.”
The cashier thinks for a minute.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. President. Two weeks ago, Tiger Woods was here and in the same situation. He proved who he was by making an amazing putt all the way across the bank lobby into a coffee cup.
“Then, just last week, Andre Agassi had to prove who he was, so he used his tennis racket and lobbed a ball all the way across the bank lobby into that same coffee cup.
“In both cases, we took that as identification and cashed their checks,” she explained.
“So, Mr. President, is there something you can do that would prove that you are, indeed, Barrack Hussein Obama, president of the United States?” she asked.
Obama stands in front of her for a moment, frowning in thought.
“You know, he says, I can’t think of a thing. My mind is a total blank. I have absolutely no idea what to do in this situation,” he says. “Seriously. No clue at all.”
The cashier smiles.
“Will that be large or small bills, Mr. President?” she asks.
