Stupid 101

I HATE junk mail, paper or electronic. I’m not referring to the concentrated evil that is spam. This is about the faceless jerks who send out millions upon millions of unsolicited offers every day. To them, modern America is one big, juicy turkey leg—a great unwashed willing to buy just about anything, sight unseen. They harangue us daily with the trustworthiness of a carnival barker, the desperation of a drowning rat, and the pure hubris that comes from decades of selling flip flops to Eskimos.

Case in point, I received a form letter the other day from a company called the Neptune Society. Sounds aquatic! Release the Krakon! Sadly, it turns out to have nothing whatsoever to do with the Roman god of the sea. The Neptune Society is all about the science of thrusting bodies, unburdened of life, into ovens so hot they’ll turn Uncle Louie, Conchita the hairdresser, or Mel the butcher into piles of indistinguishable carbon flakes—the equivalent of being flicked off the end of an overly long cigarette ash.

As I perused the letterhead, a line in the lower left corner caught my eye: “Free Pre-Paid Cremation! Details Inside.” Details? Are they checking my temperature on bodily disposal or do they have an inside track on arrivals and departures?

How was I selected to receive this incredible offer? At a time when personal privacy data is being handed out like cereal boxes on street corners, is it possible that one of my medical vendors sold a list of high-risk heart patients to this direct marketer? Actuarially my age makes me a candidate for the Grim Reaper Sweepstakes, I suppose. Or, perhaps something about dying or serious illness showed up on Facebook and a Zuckerberg algorithm spit me out on a list of people doing morbid posts. Zuckerberg does that, you know.

In general, marketers are oblivious to how sensitive our bullshit meters have become. They presume we desire a conversation with them. That we have an interest in becoming their friend, liking them, following them, pinning them, or worse, developing a crush and falling in brand-love. They tease us with one-night stands like coupons, sweepstakes, and free offers. They play Where’s Waldo with us, cleverly hiding their products on the sets of TV shows or jamming James Bond behind the wheel of an Audi thinking it’ll sucker us into buying one. They cajole us with wink-wink slogans and funny but irrelevant videos. They use sick kids and tender scenes to convince us they’re people too. They sneak messages into digital content that we are led to believe is unbiased, useful information. They mostly think like people running booths on a carnival midway, not multimillion-dollar enterprises.

The Neptune Society says it will allow family members to conduct “simple services” (read: not pricey) at “their convenience” (read: immolate Auntie Carol before she starts stinking up the living room). They say it’s “less expensive” (gas ’n a match, fingersnap!). They say it allows families a “dignified resting place” (me displayed in a lovely urn on the mantle to freak the s**t out of the grandkids). And, as if those aren’t reasons enough to sign up, they pull out all the stops on a forehead-scruncher of a close with a quote from that famous cremation advocate, Eleanor Roosevelt:“Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. And today is a gift, that’s why they call it the present.”

Hmmm, a “present” from the Neptune Society. Like birthday or Christmas, yah?! The quid pro quo is I send them a fistful of dollars. Then, on that fateful day my heart slams on the brakes and I head butt my bowl of oatmeal across the kitchen like a tiddly wink, I am literally toast, pre-paid. Sweeeeet!

Makes one want to jack the cane, crank up the oxygen, unload the catheter bag, and scurry to the land line to dial up King Neptune and get those waiting furnaces a cracklin’. Plus, in their best Bob Barker voice, they tell me I can register for a FREE Pre-Paid Cremation and, if I hit the jackpot, I can get microwaved to a crisp for nothing—nada—just like last month’s sweepstakes winner, Johnny Thompson. Poor old Johnny, you could hardly recognize him after the procedure.

All I need do is enter my name: Mr. Gary M. Johnson!

Sounds good, but that’s not my name. But then, for direct marketers, it’s not about getting the names right. Just make the sale, baby. Somewhere out there in the lonely and sad-yet-pragmatic “body disposal” marketplace, there’s a Gary M. Johnson chewing on a towel waiting to hear from these guys. Certainly he’ll take the bait and enter his name in their Bake-Off.

For now, I’m off the hook. Think I’ll go crack a cold one.