13-049
Take a Gesund-hike
I handed the clerk $2.99 for a
triple-pack of Kleenex and paid for
it with my soul.
The exchange occurred at a large
office supply store. This super-chain retains high-class lawyers and allocates
millions for litigation. My single connection to the law is cousin Arthur,
whose courtroom knowledge stems from watching Law and Order. And since my pear-shaped figure doesn't mix well
with prison stripes, no mention of the company's name shall be made. The store
will heretofore be referred to as Fasteners.
I opened an e-mail from Fasteners
and a picture of Kleenex appeared,
along with a note thanking me for shopping at their store. I spent a mere
$2.99, but considered the communication a nice gesture.
Soon another message arrived,
"We hope you're happy with your Kleenex.
We thought you might like these items as well." Pictures and descriptions
popped up, all products I needed based on my original purchase.
Few made sense. Hand sanitizer, I
agree, is good to have when you're sick. I wasn't. Fasteners also suggested I
buy window cleaner. Sneezing without covering my mouth might call for a spritz
to my panes, but I reiterate I didn't have a cold.
Making
a connection to the remaining items proved trickier than taking the Miller
Analogy's. Folgers, for example, does
one drink more coffee when in the possession of three packs of tissues? I dug
deep for a common link. Gummy Bears,
folders, rubber chew toys and a stapler? (Attention lawyers, this last item
does not refer to any company bearing a similar name.)
Coupon after coupon bombarded my
computer. I developed an unattractive tick activated each time I heard an inbox
ping.
Next came stern notes insisting it
was time to reorder. I had used only two tissues: one to clean my glasses, the
other to relocate a spider from my living room to its new home in the trash.
Even Barbra Streisand during flu season would still be working on box number
one.
Offers of free shipping and a wild
array of bonus deals came in like locust. Desperation oozed from the screen as
if the fate of the corporation rested solely on my next purchase.
Finally, Fasteners campaigned for me
to write a review of my product and post it online.
I thought of Lauren Bacall,
"You know how to use Kleenex,
don't you consumers? Just press the tissue to your nose and... blow." I
refrained.
I vowed, the day I send a
testimonial for tissues is the day all clerks can count out exact change
without the use of a computer.
Enough. To save my sanity, I took a
scissor to my Fasteners' card and asked to be withdrawn from their system. It
took sixteen requests and a threat to send cousin Arthur and Mariska Hargitay
to corporate headquarters before the barrage ended.
The stress of the media blitz caused
my immune system to take a nose dive.
I caught a cold.
My only comfort? Three boxes of Kleenex facial tissues.