COLUMN: Stop! We give up
Just either give us all the UPC mark of the beast tattooed to our foreheads in ultraviolet-light sensitive ink or leave us alone. I don’t think that I’m the only one tired of being part of someone’s data stream.
We give you money, you give us stuff and a receipt. That’s the end of the relationship. Have a nice life, please do forget to write and absolutely do not call, because you know I have lots of these relationships and I don’t want you all finding out about each other. It only leads to jealousy and possessiveness.
I don’t want to have to carry around a key chain full of little UPC thingies or have to give out my address or zip code when I shop at Gorp Brothers Sporting Goods or Radio Snack. And, just because I bought a Toy Yoda truck doesn’t mean I have to fill out an eight-page consumer satisfaction survey. Again I gave you money and you gave me the product – I’m sorry, but I’m not obliged to leave a note on the pillow or send you flowers the next day. I will always fondly cherish the time we spent together, I love our time together but we are not “in” love. I never meant to lead you on, there have always been others in my life.
A “Dear John” note to Albertson’s and Smith’s: Please just give me the 20 cents off on the five-pound bag of organic-roasted garlic cheese puffs without making me scan in my Super-Special-Most-Preferred-Beloved-Did-You-Lose-Weight? Customer code. Just let me buy my products in peace. I may run for political office or trek to Lhasa to visit the Lama some day and I don’t want to be haunted by a record of what I bought floating around there in cyberspace. I also don’t want to have to go before a special Senate committee to try to explain what I was doing with all the Saran Wrap and baby oil back in 1996.
Of course the Internet is only the half of it. I can delete junk e-mail faster than the stock market can lose money, but all this data ends up going to junk paper mail and telemarketers. Even in a politically correct climate these two have become the national object of ridicule. It’s not completely their fault. They are just the bottom dwelling trash fish fed by the aforementioned data stream.
Of course any time you accuse them of being bottom-dwelling life suckers they always come back with some anecdote about the little old shut-in lady who needs, and in fact looks forward to telemarketing and junk mail. Well, fine. I hereby challenge the telemarketing industry to compile a list of these poor souls they are great with lists – and I will personally start a volunteer group that will deliver hair growth formulas, bow flex machines, sexual aids, long-distance service changes and can’t-miss investment opportunities directly to the doors of these maligned consumers.
If I do this will you leave us alone?