Orbitz

What in the world could ever sound better than being on vacation on some sunny, sandy beach, slumped in a plastic chair with a fruity drink and utterly mentally detached from that thing back home you call your job? Oh, I don't know, maybe being spontaneously visited by a man in a jumpsuit by way of a hovercraft to deliver a partially reimbursed check with your name on it for that vacation you booked.

Sounds spectacular, doesn’t it? Seriously, who could say no to that? That's like Tiger Woods's wife giving him a list of contact info for her Swedish model friends and saying, "Just give me a call Monday morning when you're done."

Some deals are just too darn good to be true.

And so is the deal guaranteed by Orbitz, a travel-booking website and owner of the aforementioned pledge for partial reimbursement should your exact same trip be booked by someone else at a cheaper rate (probably doesn't guarantee the hovercraft delivery guy as depicted in their commercials unfortunately). And you know, when you present it like that, that's a no-brainer of a deal. Book your trip with them, and you've basically dropped your name in a raffle basket for a possible chance at some money-back action. Oh yeah!

Well, hold on there, Orbitz, let's unveil that marketing mechanism of yours to showcase it for the scoop of horse poop it is. First, your promise to reimburse a portion of my trip's expense if someone should book the same trip through your little site is preposterous. Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius. Because I know that you know that I know that you know that there's absolutely, positively no way for me to ever know if someone did in fact book a trip at a cheaper rate. So if you just decided to not give me my small percentage of sweat-labor cash back should that scenario indeed occur, well, how would I know I was supposed to receive a refund? Am I supposed to walk around the hotel and the beach asking my fellow vacationers how, for how much, and for how long they booked their trip?

Second, what is the honest-to-God probability two people would even book the exact same trip at the exact same place for the exact same dates through the exact same website -- and at different rates? (Again, and know it?) Those are lottery odds, man. Matter of fact, you may as well just play the lottery -- I hear the return on investment is marginally higher.

But I got to give you credit, Orbitz, because while creating a campaign that seemingly puts the "treat" in "holiday retreat," you have successfully -- to paraphrase one of the many legendary quotes from that great cinematic staple of business education called "Tommy Boy" -- took a dump in a box and stamped the word "guaranteed" on the side of it, and no one can call you a liar because we'll never know.

Preposterous, but, granted, slightly genius.

Toll Collectors

There have been several stories in the news lately about harassment or otherwise hostile actions exemplified by toll collectors to various drivers. You know, unwanted sexual advancements, verbal abuse, and even offers to "step out of the car and fight." Some observers and readers probably call this insanity; I call it the inevitable result of being caged up in a tall box for eight hours with a stool and money they don't even own, day after day. Keep me in there long enough with no professional end in sight, and I'd probably do the same thing, only with my face painted and no clothes.

I mean, where's the humanity in that job? Paycheck aside, that job's about a slow water-dripping faucet away from classified torture.

What exactly is the career outlook for toll collectors? Grim, I suppose. But what's the end game there -- what's the incentive for doing well versus simply handing 50 cents change with a middle finger back to each driver? I would surmise there's about as much opportunity to move up in that occupation as there's opportunity to move around in that toll booth.

Put it this way, if you're a toll collector who calls in sick, you're simply replaced by a metal basket and a different neon light indicating exact change only. Your backup is a two-inanimate-object combo. If that's not salt in the open wound of a dead-end job, I don't know what is. And now you have a couple EZ-Pass lanes breathing down your neck, just itching to take your toll bridge lane. No pressure.

Not that I'm saying your life sucks if you're a toll collector. I'm just empathizing with your depressive situation. Heck, it's a paying job and you've got to make ends meet -- you've got yourself, maybe a family, and definitely a tragically indebted government to support -- so, hey, take what's available. But I empathize with you. Truly. If you're a toll collector and you never smile, or you hate people, or you hate yourself, or you've lost your identity, or you don't bathe, or you spend half your day mentally weighing crimes you could get away with, or your favorite part of the day is reading "Ziggy" and doing the Jumble at lunch, I'm not condoning your feelings or actions, but I certainly don't blame you.

I guess what I'm saying is, just don't kill me, please.