“How’s my driving?”

I see these bumper stickers all the time, but I question their effectiveness.  Actually, I question their purpose.  “How’s my driving? Call 1-800-WE’LL-LAFF-AT-U.”  According to the legend, responsible companies with fleet vehicles register themselves with third-party organizations that report employee driving habits to ensure that they are driving safely and courteously.  In theory, a rogue employee who drives his 18-wheeler recklessly through town would get a call from his boss.  “Brutus, I know you’re attending your anger management classes regularly, but someone reported to FleetFellows that you were driving your cement truck at over 200 miles an hour through an orphanage.  That’s just not allowed.  You know, policy and all.  Sorry, but you’re fired.”  And the world instantly becomes a better place.  The goal is to threaten employees to drive safely, otherwise “big brother” will hunt them down.

But seriously, does anyone call and say, “I wanted to let you know that this driver is not only safe, but courteous. And her smiling white teeth are a friendly reminder to improve my oral hygiene?”  Probably not.  They’re just toll-free gripe lines.  And if you think about it, griping to a third-party company calms you down and diffuses the situation so that you don’t contact some kind of transportation authority and file a complaint.  Clever marketing.

I did see another rather clever use of the program.  A truck had the nominal “How’s my driving?” bumper sticker on the back.  Passing it, I noticed that the same number was listed as the company’s number on the side of the truck!

*ring ring*

Me:  I just wanted to let you know your driver is a real jerk!!

Them: Oh, I’m so sorry.  But since you called, have you considered the value of having your old rusty pipes replaced by shiny new copper ones?

Clever marketing, revisited.

As a writer, I always carry a pen around, so I’m easily able to scribble whenever I have free time like this. As a disorganized writer, I hadn’t thought of taking my current screenplay with me for editing. I improvise with napkins, making sure to tear off the bottom half-inch that bears the Starbucks copyright statement.

Ahh, the world is my napkin, and I am but a felt pen, bleeding into the papercloth. Rorschach would be proud.

The pump refused to spew a receipt, so I trudged to the glass snack shack to request one in person.  Past the Shell garbage can and the rack of LA Times newspapers. I walked past the postered windows twice before I found the one that concealed the door. I could barely see the man behind the counter, as he was obscured by a Lotto ticket machine and Slim Jim beef stick box. I talked to Slim Jim and received a printed receipt; on the back was a coupon for free coffee between 5 and 7am. I pictured dozens of sleepy people in pajamas at the crack of dawn, fumbling around the glass building for the hidden door, not unlike the zombies from Night of the Living Dead.

A horror flick, you say? If you classify advertisers as grotesque, mindless worms, I suppose you can say my brain was sucked dry by them.