Daniel Ruth and I apparently don’t matter any more.
“Sure. I’m 63.”
The woman’s brow furrowed as she scanned a long list on her clipboard from hell. Then she did it again. And then, once more, before sheepishly looking up from the market research equivalent of a black spot.
“Uh, I’m very sorry sir, but we don’t have any surveys for someone your age.”
“Nothing? Perhaps you could ask me about dry martinis? Bogart movies? Prunes? Nothing?”
“No sir, nothing at all.”
Read the rest. It’s a hoot.