I'm insanely protective of my privacy. I'm a product of the generation that thought the government was compiling vast databases to eventually enslave us, rather than the newer generation that posts every five minutes on Facebook saying, "Look! I'm over here!"

So when stores started offering "membership cards" to customers, I wanted nothing to do with it. You had to give these stores your personal information, and then they could track what you bought.

Which, you know, is pretty much the definition of invasion of privacy.

Still, I'm a man of principle only until it affects my pocketebook. I couldn't resist the ads: Shampoo for a dollar! Candy bars for a quarter! Toothpaste for fifty cents! And all you have to do is swipe your card.

I eyed the application form. It was straightforward stuff: my name, address, phone number, birth date, and email address. You could get all that by Googling me, I thought. I ignored my paranoia and filled out the application, and I got all those really sweet deals.

I'd completely forgotten about my misgivings when I heard an old woman arguing with a clerk. She wanted the discount on something she'd bought but, like me, was suspicious of the cards. "Here," I said, handing her my card, "you can use mine."

She hesitated for a second, then grabbed it. "Thank you," she said brightly as the clerk scanned it in.

And two weeks later my mailman handed me a postcard from Rite Aid. "JUST FOR YOU!" blared the big red print. "A COUPON FOR TWELVE CENTS OFF ADULT DIAPERS!"

That was it. My head morphed into a whistling teakettle. Adios privacy, hello FBI database. Yes, Rite Aid was tracking my purchases, and they were using that information to sell me more crap. I didn't appreciate it. Hell, I did one measly favor for some old lady, and now Googling "RomanHans AND incontinence" probably got a thousand hits.

I tossed my membership card in the trash, and the next time I went to Rite Aid I filled out an application form for a new card. This time around, though, I just wrote random profanity in every field. The clerk gave me a new card and I congratulated myself on solving the problem once and for all.

I shopped happily, without concern, filling up my basket with special offers. At the register, the clerk swiped my new card, and a special offer printed out. Wait, I thought, wasn't I supposed to get two?

I figured I must have made a mistake, so I went home and double-checked the ad. No, I should definitely have gotten a five-dollar gift certificate with the purchase of those razor blades. I called Rite Aid customer service. "We've gotten some other calls about that," the clerk said. "I'll put the gift certificate in the mail for you, okay?"

I murmured my assent as vague feelings of doom filled my brain. I knew it: another chicken was coming home to roost. "You should get that within three weeks," she said, "at 666 Fuck You In The Ass Lane."