DETROIT, MI—Local resident and doofus Tom Newberry, 55, awoke on Thursday unaware that his entire life was about to change. After his normal routine of a shower, breakfast of coffee and toast, and semi-thorough teeth brushing, he sat down to check his hotmail account for a moment, just before leaving for his job as a tree trimmer. According to his wife of 30 years, Mr. Newberry clicked a few buttons on the computer, took a sip of his coffee, and then spit it all onto the screen and keyboard. "I was in the other room when it happened," she said. "I thought he might be having a heart attack, or maybe he saw a spider again." Newberry shouted to his wife to "come quick!" When Teresa Newberry, 54, found him at the desk, she was ready with a facial tissue to shew away whatever had spooked him. She found instead that he had found something on the computer screen that excited him. "He does this, sometimes," shared Mrs. Newberry. "Last time it was some prince from Africa or somewhere who wanted his help to cash some check." Mrs. Newberry asked her husband what was the matter, and he just pointed at the screen. He had apparently been invited to complete a survey. Mr. Newberry was apparently quite elated at the phrasing of the invitation, such as, "we want to know your opinions," and "we've selected a group of users." He reportedly found it all very exclusive, as if he were being invited to the White House to give the President his advice on foreign trade or something. According to Mrs. Newberry, who rolled her eyes before offering him halfhearted well-wishes, her husband then cracked his knuckles, took a deep breath, and told her to, "call into work, baby. This is not something to be taken lightly. I may need the day." Mr. Newberry then spent the next hour and 20 minutes reading and re-reading the 8 survey questions regarding how he views his banking experience with his current financial institution. Although each question was answered on a 5-point scale, he pondered carefully his response as if he were not just a single drop in an ocean of data the bank was collecting. Whereas no person would ever look at his individual responses or dare follow up on how likely he is to recommend the bank to a friend, he hovered the mouse over the "submit survey" button like a man attempting to defuse a bomb. Finally, when the task was complete, Mr. Newberry sighed, stood up, and looked out the window, awaiting what he was sure would be limosine to carry him off to meet the bank president who would personally thank him for his invaluable insights into the intricacies of modern banking. His wife then made him go to work to finish the day. As of press time, his survey responses had had literally no impact on anything outside of his own delusions of grandeur.