I hate junk mail. My mother used to call it "dog mail", because it might as well be addressed to the dog as "Resident". Today was a whole dogpile of dogmail.
I don't ever check the mailbox in front of the house because I have a post office box. Anything that is of importance comes to that address, not here. I had forgotten just how long since I opened it, until the doorbell rang today, and the postman stood there in his little postman short pants, with an armload of dogmail. He was checking to see if anyone was living here, because not another smooth postcard would fit in the box.
He was very nice, and I explained that I had a post office box and didn't really look for mail here, and I'd be more attentive to cleaning out the "boxholder" mail. That's the postal term for stuff addressed to "Resident" or "Boxholder", adverts, flyers, pitiful pleas from people trying to sell you Christmas cards for the poor little children on the Indian Reservation or whatever. He said it looked like there might be a few envelopes mixed in, so be sure to go through it before I tossed it. I assured him I would do that.
I dragged up a wastebasket, my letter opener (the one with the loaves and fishes on it that I got for a year's service teaching Sunday School to Episcopalian brats) and the paper shredder. First I went through and pulled out all the catalogs for Casual Male and trashed them. Next came all the adverts for pizza, tire rotations, oil changes, and Walgreens. Slam dunk! Then I opened and shredded at least fifteen offers for "pre-approved" credit cards. How can they pre-approve ME? I have no real job, and my ex took me through bankruptcy a couple of years ago. About half of them now come with a little faux credit card (see pic) that says on the back "This is not a real credit card." Duh.
The shredder stalled. I had to compact the paper in the basket to continue.
Then there was Sears telling me that the warranty on my dryer had expired. Last February.
About a dozen dunning notices from a firm in Ohio that is trying to get me to pay a chunk of money that the VA did not pay to a HEART SPECIALIST who must have been cruising through the ER about the time I landed there with a bowel obstruction. If the man even talked to me, I have no proof, just a bill for $550 that I refuse to pay. I've also gotten threatening phone calls from this same firm who has probably bought the debt for pennies on the dollar from the original office. They can eat my shorts. What are they going to do? Ruin my non-existant credit?
The best junk mail today, though had to be this thing:
First of all, it's addressed to DR. Alice (last name I used to have). It's congratulating me for being outstanding in my field, and that makes me eligible to have my name in their Who's Who book. The last field I was outstanding in was the cotton field I wrecked my last car in when I fell asleep at the wheel. They assure me that this is a great honour and that I will certainly be proud to tell my friends that I am listed in Who's Who. Oh, c'mon. This is more like What the Hell than Who's Who. In what field do I have a doctorate? Yes, I have a B.S., although I'm probably just full of that most of the time. Oh, and Strathmore's Who's Who is not to be confused with Someone Else's Who's Who, according to the minute print at the bottom of the letter. It was so small I literally had to get the magnifier out to see what it said. What a crock of horsecrap.
Rip. Shred. Slam dunk.
