Weaver - Junk Mail Is Good!

Living

Enjoying one's junk mail

Al Sicherman

First published July 13 in the Minnesota Star Tribune.

So you though junk mail - that 86% of the stuff that drops through your letter box en route to the nearest bin - was a bad move. The Living columnist begs to differ.

If I managed somehow to actually borrow all the money being waved in my face, I'd owe $925,460. Just a couple more mailings and I'll be able to imagine owing a million dollars!
Much as I like to rail against the kind of junk I get in the mail, some of it can provide a moment or two of amusement.

For example, lately my mailbox has contained a surprising number of suggestions that I combine all of my high-interest loans into one. (High-interest loan.) There's always a fake check enclosed, and it's always for a whopping big amount.

Financial organizations all over the country appear to have decided that the only hope of getting me to sign on some dotted line is to send me so many such offers that eventually I will have to accept one of them, just to get them to shut up. I get two or three of these things every week.

A little while ago I decided to save some of them -- just the ones that come in brown envelopes that look as if they have something to do with the government or U.S. savings bonds, and most of which are marked "Dated material."

Right now I have 19 of them. The fake checks range from $42,800 to $75,000. One envelope contained no "check," just a letter. (Cheapskates!)

I entertained myself recently by totaling up how much I was offered in just those 18 mailings: If I managed somehow to actually borrow all the money being waved in my face, (and to split only one infinitive in the process), I calculated that I'd owe $925,460. Just a couple more mailings and I'll be able to imagine owing a million dollars! I should be there late this week!

There's a downside to owing an imaginary million dollars, of course: Just imagine how many debt-consolidation offers that would attract to my mailbox.

Phony Express

Another recent postal amusement came from Publisher's Clearing House. The challenge offered by sweepstakes mailings from Publisher's Clearing House and similar outfits is to figure out just where the weasel-wording is.

Typically, of course, the letter says I have won a jillion dollars in small bills, and that it will be delivered to me on a flatbed truck by two liveried footmen and the cast of "Sound of Music" -- if I have the winning ticket.

The current letter offered no such enticement. Instead, I was informed, in a bulk mailing, that I would soon be getting some important documents "via timed dispatch priority hand delivery." (I really prefer hand delivery to the annoying machine delivery, in which mail is flung at my front door by steam catapult.)

BUY ONE VIAGRAFIX TRAINING VIDEO AND GET ONE FREE

"Please be on the lookout," the mass mailing goes on, "for a Special Delivery envelope with a blue postal card personally addressed to you Alan Sicherman."

Special Delivery! Really? Special Delivery? Promised in a bulk mailing? Even before I solved that riddle I was prepared to say the following: "I don't know how Publisher's Clearing House will wiggle out of it, but if I get a genuine Special Delivery letter from them, I will eat a bug."

Then I understood. Had I been in a bathtub I would have leaped out, shouting "Eureka!" or maybe "Yow!" or, considerably more likely, "Excuse me! Where are my clothes?" In any case, here's the key:

The U.S. Postal Service, I guessed (and then confirmed), no longer offers Special Delivery. So apparently Publishers Clearing House and others can print "Special Delivery" on an envelope with no more meaning and at no greater cost than printing "timed dispatch priority hand delivery," "Dated material" or "Urgent: Contains obfuscatory bombast."

A potent suggestion

The loan offers and the sweepstakes come-on weren't intended to be amusing, but their indirectness invited a certain cynicism on my part. The brightest spot in my recent mail was even more unintentional.

It was on the back cover of a catalog from a computer outfit.

"BUY ONE VIAGRAFIX TRAINING VIDEO AND GET ONE FREE," it offered. "SEE PAGE 51 FOR DETAILS."

I know what Viagra is; it wasn't much of a strain to guess that Viagrafix is a somehow-related product. But what on earth, I wondered, is a Viagrafix training video? It didn't sound exactly wholesome, much less computer-related.

Vaguely uneasy, I turned rapidly to page 51, where I learned that ViaGrafix (it's Via and Grafix jammed together, not Viagra and fix) is the name of an outfit that produces videotapes that train people in the use of various computer programs.

With the same certainty that I possessed six years ago when I predicted the immediate demise of Berry Berry Kix (a cereal that I said sounded like a nutritional-deficiency disease) I confidently predict that ViaGrafix will soon be renamed, or at least acquire a hyphen, so it isn't so . . . odd . . . when printed in all capitals.

And I offer this counsel to anyone thinking of starting a firm that would provide detailed information on methods of organic farming: Don't call it OrgaSmart.

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This page updated August 18, 1998


	If I managed somehow to actually borrow all the money being waved in my face, I'd owe $925,460. Just a couple more mailings and I'll be able to imagine owing a million dollars!	Much as I like to rail against the kind of junk I get in the mail, some of it can provide a moment or two of amusement. For example, lately my mailbox has contained a surprising number of suggestions that I combine all of my high-interest loans into one. (High-interest loan.) There's always a fake check enclosed, and it's always for a whopping big amount. Financial organizations all over the country appear to have decided that the only hope of getting me to sign on some dotted line is to send me so many such offers that eventually I will have to accept one of them, just to get them to shut up. I get two or three of these things every week. A little while ago I decided to save some of them -- just the ones that come in brown envelopes that look as if they have something to do with the government or U.S. savings bonds, and most of which are marked "Dated material." Right now I have 19 of them. The fake checks range from $42,800 to $75,000. One envelope contained no "check," just a letter. (Cheapskates!) I entertained myself recently by totaling up how much I was offered in just those 18 mailings: If I managed somehow to actually borrow all the money being waved in my face, (and to split only one infinitive in the process), I calculated that I'd owe $925,460. Just a couple more mailings and I'll be able to imagine owing a million dollars! I should be there late this week! There's a downside to owing an imaginary million dollars, of course: Just imagine how many debt-consolidation offers that would attract to my mailbox. Phony Express Another recent postal amusement came from Publisher's Clearing House. The challenge offered by sweepstakes mailings from Publisher's Clearing House and similar outfits is to figure out just where the weasel-wording is. Typically, of course, the letter says I have won a jillion dollars in small bills, and that it will be delivered to me on a flatbed truck by two liveried footmen and the cast of "Sound of Music" -- if I have the winning ticket. The current letter offered no such enticement. Instead, I was informed, in a bulk mailing, that I would soon be getting some important documents "via timed dispatch priority hand delivery." (I really prefer hand delivery to the annoying machine delivery, in which mail is flung at my front door by steam catapult.)
	BUY ONE VIAGRAFIX TRAINING VIDEO AND GET ONE FREE	"Please be on the lookout," the mass mailing goes on, "for a Special Delivery envelope with a blue postal card personally addressed to you Alan Sicherman." Special Delivery! Really? Special Delivery? Promised in a bulk mailing? Even before I solved that riddle I was prepared to say the following: "I don't know how Publisher's Clearing House will wiggle out of it, but if I get a genuine Special Delivery letter from them, I will eat a bug." Then I understood. Had I been in a bathtub I would have leaped out, shouting "Eureka!" or maybe "Yow!" or, considerably more likely, "Excuse me! Where are my clothes?" In any case, here's the key: The U.S. Postal Service, I guessed (and then confirmed), no longer offers Special Delivery. So apparently Publishers Clearing House and others can print "Special Delivery" on an envelope with no more meaning and at no greater cost than printing "timed dispatch priority hand delivery," "Dated material" or "Urgent: Contains obfuscatory bombast." A potent suggestion The loan offers and the sweepstakes come-on weren't intended to be amusing, but their indirectness invited a certain cynicism on my part. The brightest spot in my recent mail was even more unintentional. It was on the back cover of a catalog from a computer outfit. "BUY ONE VIAGRAFIX TRAINING VIDEO AND GET ONE FREE," it offered. "SEE PAGE 51 FOR DETAILS." I know what Viagra is; it wasn't much of a strain to guess that Viagrafix is a somehow-related product. But what on earth, I wondered, is a Viagrafix training video? It didn't sound exactly wholesome, much less computer-related. Vaguely uneasy, I turned rapidly to page 51, where I learned that ViaGrafix (it's Via and Grafix jammed together, not Viagra and fix) is the name of an outfit that produces videotapes that train people in the use of various computer programs. With the same certainty that I possessed six years ago when I predicted the immediate demise of Berry Berry Kix (a cereal that I said sounded like a nutritional-deficiency disease) I confidently predict that ViaGrafix will soon be renamed, or at least acquire a hyphen, so it isn't so . . . odd . . . when printed in all capitals. And I offer this counsel to anyone thinking of starting a firm that would provide detailed information on methods of organic farming: Don't call it OrgaSmart.