A colleague had his identity stolen. The thief ran up a $500 bill on one of his department store credit cards. He reported the charge. The bank fixed it.
I might do things differently.
My credit is so bad, if someone stole my identity, my credit score would go up.
I pity the thief. I’ve had this identity for most of 45 years. It’s been OK, but I’m no Kardashian. I’m not even a Jenner.
I’m a lumpy middle-aged white guy in the Midwest who spent 27 years in journalism and is collecting student loan debt in hopes of entering the lucrative field of public education.
If you steal my identity, I’m going to let you keep it.
I wish they sold identity insurance the way they sold car insurance. Somebody jacks your car, the insurance company writes you a check and you go get a new ride.
I would go down to Identity Emporium and pick out something new.
Do you have anything in a Tom Selleck, “Magnum, P.I.” era?
I’m sorry, sir, but with the payout from your previous identity, you’d be lucky to get into a Tom Selleck, “Blue Bloods” era.
How about Brad Pitt after Jennifer Aniston, but before he left Angelina Jolie?
Sir, there is the question of size.
Size? What size? Are you telling my my identity is big and tall? What if a short guy stole my identity? He’s going to look silly.
I don’t make the rules, sir.
It sounds like we’re making it up as we go.
Fine. What do you have for me in celebrity?
We could just get you into a John Goodman, “Roseanne” first series era?
Couldn’t I at least get John Goodman from “The Big Lebowski?”
I’m sorry, sir. Our last of those identities was stolen last week.
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