Don’t tell my wife, but the other night when I was supposedly working late, I instead went to a bar near my office to test out some au courant theories on “building relationships” through big data.
There was a tall brunette alone at the bar. Before I sidled over to chat her up, I had snuck a peek into her pocketbook and found out as much information about her as I could.
“Octavia,” I said to her by way of introduction.
She looked at me with a winsome set of cow eyes.
“Do I know you?”
“Well, no. But I know you. So I can do more for you. For instance, I know you have a business trip next week to Topeka. Let me recommend some restaurants.”
She looked pissed. But page 22 of the “Letch’s Handbook” tells me to ignore such expressions of disdain.
“How do you know that?”
“I took the liberty of going through your email and your search history. You do have quite the fantasy life, Octavia! And, by the way, I think it’s time for some new wiper blades, a baldness cure, and these pills I’m calling ‘the female Viagra.’”
“Listen,” she replied, “I’m going to call a cop.”
“No need for that. This is perfectly acceptable modern-marketing.”
In a trice, she had put on her coat and shoved a $20 across the bar top.
“Let me send you a Groupon,” I offered “to help you pay for that. Just give me some more personal information, and it’s yours.”
“Why don’t you get the fuck out of my face,” she replied.
But I had the perfect answer for that rebuke.
“No. That’s not good for me. I think instead, I’ll follow you around for the next few months. And hope that by following you, you’ll warm up to me.”
She left the bar in a huff.
And I went after her. A minute and a huff later.