Totally in character, I pointed to the T&CO earrings underneath the glass display case. "Let me see those earrings," I said. "The ones that look like crotch snaps, yo."
Looking mildly offended, the Tiffany employee pulled out the crotch-snap earrings. "These are sterling silver," she said, placing them on a little padded cushion. "They're lovely."
"Why do they say TACO?" I asked.
There was a long pause. "It says T&CO," she replied. "It stands for Tiffany & Company."
"Too bad," I responded. "She really likes tacos." I turned over the price tag -- Tiffany employees always make you do this yourself, leaving you feeling mildly dirty -- to find the earrings were a whopping $150. If they had said LEVIS, they would have looked right at home on a pair of jeans.
"I like the Taco Snaps, yo," I concluded. "Now let me see that one." I pointed to a keepsake necklace that bore the engraving, "PLEASE RETURN TO TIFFANY & CO. NEW YORK."
She took it out of the case and placed it on the cushion. "Again, this is sterling silver."
"I like this one," I pointed out, "because if she loses it, it can be returned, right?"
"No, you can't really return it."
"Why not? It says PLEASE RETURN."
"That's just, ah..." She trailed off, searching for an explanation that wouldn't force her to admit that some women just like showing they can afford the name TIFFANY. "That's just part of the design."
"Oh." I stared at it sadly through my Cyclops sunglasses. "So you can't just drop it in a mailbox?"
"No. That's just the design."
"Is it like a doggy tag?" I wouldn't let it go. "So you don't lose your woman?"
"No." She looked away, clearly wishing she were working at Brookstone.
"Dayum." I pronounced it in two syllables, like a real credit card thief. "All right, I'll take it anyway. And the crotch-stud earrings, please."
My total came to over $250. I handed her my credit card, and there was some awkward silence as the transaction took a moment to go through. I had a mild panic that Citi had already cancelled the card.
"Is this for a birthday or special occasion?" she asked me, suspiciously eyeing the tags hanging from my stolen Armani clothes.
"Just want to tell my ho that I love her," I said. (I have no idea how pimps make that phrase sound natural.)
Her eyes grew wide with shock, but she regained her footing as the machine spit out my receipt. "That's sweet," she said, handing me a pen.
Once again, I signed "STOLEN." She checked the signature against the card, which didn't match, then handed me my purchase. "You have a nice day."
"Word."
I had now made suspicious, out-of-the-blue purchases from Tiffany and Armani. To celebrate, I went to my local supermarket and bought the biggest package of the shittiest beer I could find.
If a 30-pack of Keystone Light doesn't set off alarm bells, nothing will.
At Citi headquarters, I pictured Fraud Detection Officers springing into action, thanks to their electrified jockstraps that are wired directly into the Citi identity theft computers.
It's cumbersome, all those employees with wires coming out of their pants, trying desperately to run around the mainframe without getting all tangled up. "RED ALERT! RED ALERT!" they scream, as the Citi IdentityMonitor room slowly fills with the acrid stench of burning testicle hair.
At least, that's what I pictured. The reality was a little different.
