A stranger approaches you and stares at you. They say nothing. You can only assume that they are not retarded. And so, you smile politely back, but it seems as though they want something.
This kind of situation has never happened to me in real life, but happens with confusing frequency on social media sites. Say you get a friend request from someone whom you know nothing about, who doesn’t attempt any further correspondence, what do you do? Being tired of this particular kind of silly situation, and recently being contacted by Sheila Paquette, I decided to see if I couldn’t get any more information. Drafting an E-mail and sending it to Ms. Paquette, I eagerly awaited a response. That was about 3 weeks ago. Why someone wouldn’t respond to the E-mail below simply boggles my mind.
Dear Ms. Paquette
Whilst enjoying my morning brandy and admiring my sprawling estate, my enjoyment was interrupted by an anxious looking man standing in the doorway. As part of a personal policy I have towards people under my employment, I never allow him to speak unless spoken to. He stood in the doorway for nearly 10 seconds before I asked, “What is it, Harrison?” I call all of my servants Harrison for the sake of simplicity. Harrison orated all of the E-mail that I had received that day, which consisted of several wonderfully polite Nigerian Princes wishing to gift me their paltry wealth, a bill for my monthly supply of brandy, and a request to connect in LinkedIn from a certain Sheila Paquette.
“Sheila Paquette!” I exclaimed, excited to hear from an old friend. I froze, and took a moment to ponder. “Sheila Paquette?” I wondered aloud, as perhaps she was a business acquaintance. The name became more unfamiliar as it rolled off my tongue. “Sheila…Pa…Quette?” I glared at Harrison and asked him if his name was Sheila Paquette. It wasn’t. “Who is Sheila Paquette?” I mused to myself. Harrison opened his mouth to answer, but as per my policy, he was only to speak when spoken to, and since I was musing to myself and not him, I grabbed the broom that sits aside my fireplace and brushed his face a bit until his will to speak was gone. I returned to my brandy, and began to strategize my next move.
The solution came to me in a flash. I stood upright, felt dizzy, sat back down, then stood upright again. “Fetch me my Compaq Presario!” I ordered, with a renewed sense of vigor. Approximately a decade prior, I had ejected the Presario from the window of my study while in a heated chat debate over working conditions of servants. Where other computers had landed on the marble patio and shattered, the Presario landed on another Harrison and was left relatively unscathed, proving it to be one of the better made computers on the market. That quality paid off, because I immediately flew into a typing trance, fingers racing across the keyboard and across the side of my desk. Harrison had to guide me back to the keyboard on more than one occasion. I was determined to solve this mystery quickly and efficiently.
In my most professional, and courteous tone, I typed: “How may I help you, Ms. Paquette?”