State House Blues

I just found out- while innocently checking my phone messages- that my “social security number has been used for fraudulent activity;” They are contacting me from "The Department” as in this is The Department calling (which department? Is it a department store??) to let me know I “could be arrested” and need to get back to them (presumably with all my personal identity information) before it all “goes to the state house. . . .”

The state house???  Sounds like something from a mid-century noir in black and white about “the Big House,” visions of George Raft arduously, frantically swimming away from Alcatraz as he takes a bullet smack between the eyes. Is this truly to be my fate??? Is this what shopping at Bloomingdale’s has wrought?? I’ll admit retail therapy has its downside, but prison???  I’ll say this for the phishers, they know their movie history alright, regular film buffs they are!

The day before that I was cautioned about my “auto service contract;” apparently it was up for renewal, and I’d better see to it faaaast- even though I cannot recall ever having signed on for such a service.

Earlier in the week the important message of the day was relayed in a language I do not speak, perhaps Chinese, and there was loud music playing in the background that I similarly did not recognize; these I have gotten on a regular basis, ironically reminiscent of the entertainments of a century past, specifically a game show called “Name That Tune.” In truth, I was completely stumped, had no idea what the song was called, though no doubt I will be given the opportunity to try again. Apparently I am a favored contestant.

I suppose one of the benefits of “going to the Big House” (after a brief trip to the “state house”) will be that I no longer have access to a phone and therefore cannot receive, check for or listen to these messages.

What I really want to know though, is how come these guys on the other end of the line are not in “the Big House” themselves. . . .

Yup, we gotta send these punks right up the river to the hoosegow before they get their hands on another rube or put some patsy behind the eight ball. Listen sister, I’m knackered from these calls, so maybe we just collar some stoolie, get the canary to sing, and make sure these hooligans never get outta the stir! They’re a bunch of dirty, double crossing rats.

I’ll “state house” ‘em. . . .

Say your prayers, mugs.