I once bought a Gillette Mach 3 Turbo razor. I made this purchase on the understanding that it would move at three times the speed of sound (it was after all invoking the name of Ernst Mach) and further that the razor would use the power of its own engine to funnel back compressed air into its combustion chamber. That's what turbo means. I didn't know why a razor would have an internal combustion engine, but it was precisely this curiousity that led me to make the purchase.
A day later, I stormed back into the chemist and started haranguing, accusing, cajoling and condemning the young deceiver behind the counter who had the cheek to feign innocence.
I once (truly) engaged in an e-mail correspondence with a fellow from Dell Computers asking him if I qualified for the free executive carry-case when I wasn't an executive. He seemed confused, but I did actually manage to get his assurance in writing that executives have the same hand-shape as other humans.
Someday, when I have more money than thirst, I'm going to go on a rampage of barratry suing any seller of tandoori that is not made in a clay oven. Moreover, I'm going to put a huge series of posters on the Tube showing the actual Jack Daniels Distillery. I do not believe that that company has managed to get a bottle of sugary raccoon urine into every bar in the world on the basis of two slow-moving rustics called Jeb and a horse-drawn cart.
Is that so, Santa?