OK, call me Ned Flanders and I can appreciate the spirit in which it was intended. Others can call me EVIL INCARNATE and it won’t make me question my existence. But some things are starting to make me wonder what some people think about me.
For example, I get about 8 “Paypal” messages a day with this photo alerting me to possible security problems and giving me a handy link where I can easily reveal all my personal information with just a couple of clicks and watch my credit score fall right before my very eyes.
If I didn’t fall for this scam the first 1,843 times it hit my email, why do they think that mailings 1,844-1,850 are going to do the trick? Do they think I’m like some big, old bass under the lily pads thinking, “You know, that rubber worm is starting to look really good.” Did I somehow get my name added to some national sucker registry?
Then last week I rented a car at the St. Louis airport where the young lady offered me the option of simply leaving it to them to refill the gas tank when I brought the car back — at only $4.10 a gallon. Next I caught the agency’s shuttle to the car lot where I was greeted as soon as I stepped down onto the pavement by my own personal service associate. He helpfully had all my paperwork in hand, and informed me that for just a few dollars more a day he could easily get me into an SUV. I declined. He then walked me around the car for a pre-rental damage inspection and showed me where to sign on the form if I wanted the additional insurance.
I declined that too.
He pointed to another line where I could sign if I wanted the special insurance that would cover my own auto insurance deductible if anything happened to the car.
I again declined.
Then he asked if I was sure that I didn’t want the extra special insurance coverage that would let me simply walk away without a thought no matter what condition the car was in when I brought it back.
This time I looked around to make sure it was a shuttle van and not a turnip truck that I had just dismounted from, then checked my reflection in the car window to make sure that I somehow hadn’t morphed into Bo Duke. I declined again and this time he finally let me drive away. At the intersection there was a guy selling Rolexes from a cardboard box.
You know, that was a pretty good deal.