FOR THE UMPTEENTH TIME, I MAY HAVE WON MILLIONS
By Charlie Clark

Reader's Digest Sweepstakes Advertisement

Somewhere, years ago, a little person's voice was heard: "Mommy, when I grow up I want to be a sweepstakes direct-mail package designer. I want to think up new and innovative come-ons for making people think they're suddenly rich."

Fast-forward a few decades and the fruits of this person's ambitions are arriving in my mailbox daily.

The envelopes fairly shout: "Award Notification Enclosed," "Urgent Payout Entry Notification, "Confirmation of Prize Issuance Schedule," and, on my favorite piece of junk mail ever, "Mr. Clark, we hold you in high esteem."

Some of this is my own fault. I encouraged these sweepstakes hustlers by returning a few of their forms, drawn in by a combination of journalistic curiosity and plain old weak will power. If they had made me a millionaire, I would have mentioned it by now.

Instead, my taking the bait has merely quadrupled the number of sweepstakes peddlers with my name in their databases-magazine vendors, book publishers, and a rising number of charities-which are impossible to keep track of.

Having examined as many of their gimmicks as I can stand, I can report that the modern techniques for luring in the suckers can be reduced to the following:

· Insert the recipient's name in multiple places on the mailout, often in large typefaces, and couch the name on a list of previous winners who sound like average citizens.

· Turn up the pressure by imposing panic-inducing deadlines. "Expires after five days," "final notice," "immediate attention required," "or "unclaimed funds will be forfeited."

· Begin each sentence in the announcement intriguingly, as in "We've been trying to track you down," or with language that sounds like winning is a done deal but which delays all the qualifying language: "You probably thought it could never happen to you!You are guaranteed to be awarded either $5,000 cash or $100 a week for a year. if you have and return the winning prize claim number."

· Jump the recipient ahead to the collection process even before he is sure he has won. Ask him to mark whether he wants his payment "hand delivered" and whether he wants it monthly or as a lump sum.

· Imitate high-security document delivery procedures by decorating the envelope with stern warnings: "filed on record," "monitored package," or the important-sounding "unauthorized opening is prohibited."

· Use fancy paper-stock, props (such as a semi-authentic car key), lots of four-color splashes and official-looking, personally inscribed "certificates" surrounded by borders, swirls, watermarks and holograms that make them look like savings bonds.

· Seduce the recipient by providing instructions for tactile participation. (Consumers apparently become more willing to buy or absorb a brand name into their consciousness through the act of fondling a plastic sticker or cutting out a postage-stamp-size image and transferring it to a designated slot.)

· Bombard the recipient with multiple contests to boost chances that at least one prize will tug at the heartstrings. (The lists of prizes mix undeniably valuable cars, stereos and free vacations with more flexibly mundane items like luggage or jewelry.)

· Make the dupes who enter the contest choose either a "yes" envelope or a "no envelope" that declares instantly whether they've purchased the proffered magazine, book, or gemstone. (That plays on the guilt many feel at trying to become a zillionaire without first being a paying customer.)

· Once a recipient has entered and confirmed his home address, look up his phone number and turn it over to a high-pressure telemarketer who will reinforce anticipation of the sweepstakes drawing and rack up some magazine sales on his credit card.

Thanks to recent congressional hearings and lawsuits from some elderly people who've been scammed into buying scads of unneeded household items in the false hope of winning big-time, sweepstakes marketers do have obligations. But their declarations of the numerical odds against winning and their reminder that buying a product does not increase one's chances are buried in the fine print hidden slyly inside the package.

Yet taking time to actually read that fine print might alert you to the brassiest trick of them all. That's the one in which they quietly inform you that by applying to collect your prize, you're required to send in a "processing fee."

Having done all this research, I am now smart enough to write to our ambitious come-on creator and propose a more efficient approach. Instead of my sending you $20 so I can collect my $65,000,000, why not just send me $64,999,980?

Your urgent response is awaited.

Charlie Clark is a frequent contributor to The Idler, and author of Finish High School At Home.