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Dear Occupant:
If we may be permitted to say, this is not your father's junk mail. That should be clear from the way it is addressed to you and you, alone -- Occupant.
Nevertheless, we know you are not going to read this. You are not even going to crack open the envelope before you stuff the whole thing in the shredder. In the old days, when people used to read mail, or, for that matter, to read at all, we were in the habit of mincing words. Our insurer told us we had to do so, because some of the recipients of our glossy packages actually used to fill out the pre-paid forms, enticed by the representation that they had "definitely" won either: (a) a new house or; (b) a cruise or; (c) a cruise on a new houseboat or; (d) 1,000 pounds of birdseed. (We used to ship a lot of birdseed in those days). And of course, the only thing these idiots were doing was putting themselves on our mailing lists for life. In fact, we hounded many of them to the grave we have heard tell.
We used to be more polite, because some people were interested in what we had to say. Those days have vamoosed. Today, there is a new sheriff in town shooting from the hip, both guns ablazing, and uttering many words of four letters.
What we mean is that this is our final notice on this subject. We could tell you that you must respond in 7 days, but what's the point? You're going to miss the deadline, anyway, so why bother? Besides, we've already sold your data to a re-packager, so there's nothing in it for us. It would just be going through the motions. We have better things to do. Instead, we want to get a few things off our chest.
For starters, we don't like you. Never did. We think you are a jerk. It's not just because you are always throwing our stuff away. Trust us, it doesn't hurt our feelings. No, it's the way you are always stowing our materials under a pile of magazines, rediscovering them only when you are on a blitzkrieg to clean the apartment (having just heard that surprise guests are coming over for dinner), opening them on your way to the trash, pausing from your chores momentarily, and suddenly getting drawn in by our promise -- writ large on the inside flap -- of a chance to win instant riches, only to learn that the offer expired yesterday. We know your name is "Occupant," but it might as well be "Luzer." It's a wonder we ever wasted any time on you. Somebody did win that chance. But it wasn't you, pardner.
Another thing we don't like about you is your expression of moral superiority whenever our notices arrive. Like, who died and made you king? It would kill you to at least pretend that we are as worthy of your attention as the Notice of Lien you are always getting? (according to our sources). As we have said more than once, the enclosed return address labels festooned with drawings of stick figures demonstrating the Heimlich maneuver are yours to keep. Can the Notice of Lien say that? Did you know that the enclosed return address labels make great gifts? That's as long as the people you give them to don't mind that it's your address on them.
While we're on the subject of things we don't much care for, here's another. It's your habit of insanely scrawling all over the envelope "Not Here!" with Van Gough-like strokes so violently wrought that they perforate part of the plastic window where we were so careful to make sure that your name appeared. Have you ever stopped to think how stupid this is? You're the occupant, aren't you? How could you not be here and writing "Not Here!" at the same time? It makes our head spin. We have to lie down. Is it a wonder that you are whispered about in the neighborhood?
Finally, if you didn't want to be on our mailing list for the past 23 years, why didn't you just leave? Your attitude is, frankly, not helpful.
Well, thanks for allowing us to vent. Look for our exciting announcement coming next week.
Oh, we almost forgot! You have "definitely" won some birdseed.
If we may be permitted to say, this is not your father's junk mail. That should be clear from the way it is addressed to you and you, alone -- Occupant.
Nevertheless, we know you are not going to read this. You are not even going to crack open the envelope before you stuff the whole thing in the shredder. In the old days, when people used to read mail, or, for that matter, to read at all, we were in the habit of mincing words. Our insurer told us we had to do so, because some of the recipients of our glossy packages actually used to fill out the pre-paid forms, enticed by the representation that they had "definitely" won either: (a) a new house or; (b) a cruise or; (c) a cruise on a new houseboat or; (d) 1,000 pounds of birdseed. (We used to ship a lot of birdseed in those days). And of course, the only thing these idiots were doing was putting themselves on our mailing lists for life. In fact, we hounded many of them to the grave we have heard tell.
We used to be more polite, because some people were interested in what we had to say. Those days have vamoosed. Today, there is a new sheriff in town shooting from the hip, both guns ablazing, and uttering many words of four letters.
What we mean is that this is our final notice on this subject. We could tell you that you must respond in 7 days, but what's the point? You're going to miss the deadline, anyway, so why bother? Besides, we've already sold your data to a re-packager, so there's nothing in it for us. It would just be going through the motions. We have better things to do. Instead, we want to get a few things off our chest.
For starters, we don't like you. Never did. We think you are a jerk. It's not just because you are always throwing our stuff away. Trust us, it doesn't hurt our feelings. No, it's the way you are always stowing our materials under a pile of magazines, rediscovering them only when you are on a blitzkrieg to clean the apartment (having just heard that surprise guests are coming over for dinner), opening them on your way to the trash, pausing from your chores momentarily, and suddenly getting drawn in by our promise -- writ large on the inside flap -- of a chance to win instant riches, only to learn that the offer expired yesterday. We know your name is "Occupant," but it might as well be "Luzer." It's a wonder we ever wasted any time on you. Somebody did win that chance. But it wasn't you, pardner.
Another thing we don't like about you is your expression of moral superiority whenever our notices arrive. Like, who died and made you king? It would kill you to at least pretend that we are as worthy of your attention as the Notice of Lien you are always getting? (according to our sources). As we have said more than once, the enclosed return address labels festooned with drawings of stick figures demonstrating the Heimlich maneuver are yours to keep. Can the Notice of Lien say that? Did you know that the enclosed return address labels make great gifts? That's as long as the people you give them to don't mind that it's your address on them.
While we're on the subject of things we don't much care for, here's another. It's your habit of insanely scrawling all over the envelope "Not Here!" with Van Gough-like strokes so violently wrought that they perforate part of the plastic window where we were so careful to make sure that your name appeared. Have you ever stopped to think how stupid this is? You're the occupant, aren't you? How could you not be here and writing "Not Here!" at the same time? It makes our head spin. We have to lie down. Is it a wonder that you are whispered about in the neighborhood?
Finally, if you didn't want to be on our mailing list for the past 23 years, why didn't you just leave? Your attitude is, frankly, not helpful.
Well, thanks for allowing us to vent. Look for our exciting announcement coming next week.
Oh, we almost forgot! You have "definitely" won some birdseed.
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