This missed connection afforded me jillions of replies, including one from someone who is fairly prominent and used his real name (unless that dude has an enemy who's subtly trying to bring him down with missed connections):
You remind me of my Daddy, with your pin stripes and your sleek seal's head.
When I look at you, I think of that future morning when we take the Ferrari downtown together instead of rubbing up against less ambitious strangers on the crowded train.
I saw you on the red line at the Grand station today. Let's take over the world together. I would love to be the woman behind the man. And under the man. And on top of the man.
But these two, Alleyway and Stomped Foot, got me nothing (more or less). Except I like them better. They do not make me feel gross, like the one above.
Part of the pleasure of writing these is the responses--but even (or maybe especially) in missed connections, there is the lowest common denominator.
And so we writers of missed connections must make the ultimate choice: the slobber (and other bodily fluids) of the masses or the appreciation of a few. (Please read that last sentence/paragraph in a somber, snooty voice. And then sigh for a long, long time.)