MY FRIEND’S LOAN APPLICATION THAT LOOKED LIKE A COMEDY SCRIPT
MY FRIEND’S LOAN APPLICATION THAT LOOKED LIKE A COMEDY SCRIPT
My friend Dave is the kind of person who treats financial documents like a stand-up comedy routine. He once decided to apply for a personal loan, and the process turned into an epic saga that could easily be mistaken for a sitcom. From the very beginning, the universe seemed to conspire to make his loan application the most entertaining financial spectacle in history.
It started when he sat down at his desk with a pen, a calculator, and a cup of coffee that was clearly plotting against him. He stared at the blank application form like it was an alien language. The “Full Name” section became a philosophical question. “Do I put my nickname? My social media handle? Or the name my parents used to shame me for life?” he muttered. Meanwhile, I was silently praying for the sake of banking sanity.
. Next came the “Employment Information” section. Dave works freelance, which for banks, apparently translates to “we suspect criminal activity.” He tried to summarize his income: “I sometimes earn $500, sometimes $5000, sometimes in gift cards, sometimes in bitcoin…?” The clerk behind the glass probably started drafting an escape plan for life after financial horror.
When he reached the section on monthly expenses, he panicked. “Rent? Utilities? Netflix subscription? Occasional pizza?” Each line was more dramatic than the last. His handwriting grew wilder by the minute, as if the pen itself sensed the comedic energy. By the time he wrote down “coffee budget: $150 per month,” I feared they’d reject him on the grounds of financial eccentricity.
Collateral was another adventure. Banks usually like property, savings, or investments. Dave, on the other hand, offered… his gaming console. “It’s limited edition, appreciate in value, and emotionally priceless,” he argued. I almost fell off my chair laughing. If financial institutions valued emotional attachments, Dave would be a millionaire. Instead, he got a polite, “Please list something more traditional.”
The “Purpose of Loan” section became a masterclass in absurdity. Dave wrote: “To invest, to survive, to eat, to hopefully afford a small island one day, and maybe start a business selling scented candles that smell like ambition.” I swear, if there was a Pulitzer for loan application comedy, he would have won it. Banks, unfortunately, did not have a sense of humor.
Then came the references. He called his cousin, who works at a tech startup. “Will you vouch for me financially?” Dave asked. His cousin replied, “Sure… I guess.” By the time they hung up, Dave’s loan application looked more like a collaborative comedy sketch than a financial document.
The most legendary moment, however, came with the income verification. Dave is self-employed, with irregular income. He attempted to show bank statements, freelance invoices, and… a handwritten ledger on a napkin from a café. “I have receipts for coffee purchases. Surely, that counts as proof of responsibility,” he insisted. The bank clerk stared. I stared. Even the security camera seemed confused.
Credit score discussion was equally dramatic. Dave opened his app and exclaimed, “My credit score is 650? I thought I was a financial genius!” He stared at the number as if it were a cryptic message from the cosmos. I reminded him that maybe avoiding credit card bills for three months might help. He nodded solemnly and then asked, “Can we pray over this number?” At that point, I realized his loan application had officially become a full-fledged comedy performance.
The bank finally asked for a breakdown of debts. Dave listed everything: student loans, credit cards, “emotional debts,” overdue library fines, and a “Netflix apology fund” for binge-watching too much. He insisted that each line item showed character, not irresponsibility. I had to hand it to him—he managed to make debt sound like a personality trait.
After submitting the application, he emailed the bank a motivational poem about financial literacy and personal growth. “The winds of fortune blow upon those who apply with faith,” it began. The bank replied two weeks later: “Your application is… under review.” Under review, I thought. By the time they responded, I was ready to write a sitcom script based on Dave’s antics.
Meanwhile, Dave started explaining his repayment plan. It involved side hustles, cryptocurrency investments, selling handcrafted soaps, and “the occasional street performance to earn extra cash.” By this point, I could no longer distinguish between financial strategy and stand-up comedy. Banks generally prefer predictable repayment methods, but Dave prefers unpredictability—entirely in his own theatrical style.
The funniest part? He received a request for additional documentation. Dave sent a PDF titled: “Proof of Responsibility and Epicness in Financial Matters,” which included a photo of him holding a piggy bank, a certificate from a free online finance course, and a motivational quote about money. I am not exaggerating when I say the bank must have paused to consider whether they were reviewing a loan application or a modern art masterpiece.
Of course, the verification phone call was a high comedy. The bank officer asked about his income. Dave responded with, “I earn in multiple currencies, mostly joy, sometimes Bitcoin, occasionally in the currency of trust.” The officer paused. Dave continued, “Also, I have a cat who’s a good luck charm.” I am fairly certain the bank officer considered quitting their job at that moment.
Eventually, the application process dragged on for weeks. Dave called me daily to read the automated emails aloud. “Your application is still under review… Your application is still under review… Your application…” Each repetition felt like a comedic beat in a long-running sketch. We laughed until we cried.
Somewhere along the way, Dave convinced himself that the bank actually needed him more than he needed the bank. “They are lucky to even consider me,” he said confidently. “I bring personality, creativity, and a deep understanding of financial metaphysics.” I nodded, unsure if I should be impressed or call a financial therapist.
Finally, the decision day arrived. Dave strutted into the bank, wearing a tie that matched his mood: chaotic optimism. When the officer announced a partial approval with conditions, he gasped as though it were a plot twist in a drama series. “Aha!” he exclaimed. “See, faith and creativity triumph over convention!” I laughed so hard I nearly fell off the chair.
In the aftermath, Dave treated the entire ordeal as a comedic triumph. He now shares his “loan application script” at parties, workshops, and occasionally with unsuspecting strangers in cafés. Each retelling grows more absurd, more theatrical, and more financially hilarious. People laugh, cry, and occasionally ask him for financial advice—which he delivers with the same unpredictable genius and poetic license as his loan application.
To this day, I still cannot decide if Dave is a financial innovator, a performance artist, or a walking comedy sketch. Perhaps he is all three. The lesson here is clear: financial institutions may expect documentation, proof, and formalities, but sometimes the real asset is laughter. And in that, Dave has an unmatched portfolio.
Ultimately, the saga of his loan application proves one undeniable fact: money may be serious, but humans do not have to be. Creativity, humor, and a dash of theatrical absurdity are valid currencies, even if banks don’t recognize them. Dave’s story is a reminder that finance can be funny, banking can be theatrical, and life is far too short not to laugh at our attempts to navigate both.
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