Saturday, May 02, 2009

Requiem for Direct Mail.

The above is a scan of a Direct Mail piece for a local chiropractor.

The copy tells the tale of a woman concerned with her daughter's migraines. The copy also tells the tale of a crappy copywriter who believes this chiropractor's audience has the IQ of a worm (worms are spineless, ha ha ha).

Here it is:

"...She was suffering from an excrutiating migraine. She was vomiting, experiencing blindness and numbness so I called the emergency room..."

Ok. I'm with the story. Drama, urgency...I'll keep reading.

"...but by mistake dialed the wrong number. On the other end was a chiropractor..."

Sweet jiminy. Missing 9-1-1 and getting a chiropractor?!? The writer might as well have written that on the other end, Jesus answered the phone and he was riding a rainbow colored unicorn. Wait. It gets worse. Better. Whatever.

"I almost hung up, but I was ready to try almost anything so I set an appointment."

AN APPOINTMENT. You know, if my daughter is vomiting, blind and numb, and I call up ER and get a "chiropractor" I am not going to dink around and set a freaking APPOINTMENT. I'm going to hang up and bang 9 1 1 1 1 1 until the ambulance arrives.

The saddest thing about this shlock is that the chiropractor who paid for this tripe also authorized this tripe. And that makes this particular piece of Direct Mail, truly Sadvertising.

And the crappy 80's clip-art models are wearing clothes cut from lousy waiting-room furniture. Probably the chiropractor's.

Shmuck. Junk mail like this makes me sad. I know where it comes from - some faceless direct mail service that targets niche markets with promises like "$99 for 1000 pieces!" and "Average rate of response, 34% - pays for itself immediately!" Bah. Half tempted to call the chiropractor and ask, "Is this really, truly representative of YOU?!"

Hope he still has his furniture.