Ultimate Ruddy Ruddy

Discussing your job on a blog is a bit of a no-no. Say the wrong thing, and you can find yourself out on the street clutching a banker's box full of your personal effects. But I don't think there's any harm in mentioning that my job involves editing marketing material and that my boss pulled me into his office yesterday to show me something.

"Check this out," he said, handing me a prototype piece of direct mail designed to sell our new product. "We're going to be doing more of this from now on."

And I realized something: With the way his name has been bought and sold to dozens of credulous marketers who never seem to question the existence of such an implausibly named person, it seems almost inevitable that my own company -- a business upon whose premises the very Wall of Ruddy Ruddy itself was once located -- will eventually send junk mail to Ruddy Ruddy.

That might be the ultimate Ruddy Ruddy achievement. I've long talked about how I'd like to see Ruddy Ruddy awarded a credit card, registered to vote, or drafted into the military, but seeing my own company duped into thinking that Ruddy Ruddy is a real person -- well, that's the big one. I could retire on that caper.*

Happily, that hasn't happened yet, and I'll continue to update you on the mail that keeps coming in for Ruddy Ruddy. And I can promise you that you're going to like the next one. My neighbour and Ruddy Buddy Elizabeth (upon whom I have bestowed the nom de Ruddy of "Cootie Hagar") came back to my place with me tonight and ripped open an envelope that recently arrived, and by God, it's a good one. It might be my favorite one ever.

But that's a story for another day. Stay tuned, my Ruddy Buddies.

* Okay, merely receiving mail is too passive to be called a "caper", but you know what I'm saying here.

Super Ruddy Ruddy

"Ruddy Ruddy" has been variously prefixed by the honorifics "Mr.", "Mrs.", "Miss", and even "Dr". But never before have I seen anything addressed to "Super Ruddy Ruddy". Until now, that is.

Shell Motorsport has sent a bunch of stickers of its Ferrari racing team. I'm not sure why. Maybe they believe Super Ruddy Ruddy to be the thinly disguised superpowered alter ego of the regular Ruddy Ruddy, kind of like how Grover would occasionally become Super Grover on Sesame Street. And maybe they figure that, being a superhero, Super Ruddy Ruddy might be looking to purchase some kind of Batmobile-like high-performance automobile. And in that case, won't Super Ruddy Ruddy please keep Ferrari in mind for his vehicular crimefighting needs?

But wherever did they hear about Super Ruddy Ruddy in the first place? And how is it that this particular piece of mail comes all the way from England?

I wonder if I don't detect the hand of one of my English Ruddy Buddies in this one. Not only do they live in England (not that that's that important in the scheme, since one can order the stickers off Shell's website), but they also know my home mailing address. I particularly suspect that Ruddy Buddy #1, a charming little lady whom I've christened "Dr. Jr." for the purposes of her own potential Ruddy-esque mail-fraud adventures, might be behind this little caper. After all, if anyone thinks Ruddy Ruddy is super, it's her. And the feeling is mutual.

The unforeseen benefits of Ruddy Ruddy

This didn't fit anywhere in today's other update, but I thought it worthy of mention:

My housemate almost walked in on me tonight while I was completely undressed, but fortunately, my nakedness just happened to be blocked from her vantage point by an enormous stack of previously discussed mail to Ruddy Ruddy that happened to be stacked on a shelf interposed between us.

At least, I think so. I hope so. On the other hand, my housemate is so stupid from a brain injury that it wouldn't be much worse than being nude in front of your dog.

P. Caponio soon to b. kaput

Well, it’s that time of the month again for Miss Ruddy Ruddy.

No, I’m not talking about menstruation, or PMS, or anything like that. Quite the reverse – it’s time for Enchantress Hosiery of Canada to bitch at Ruddy Ruddy in what has fast become a monthly tradition of tersely worded collection letters. Behold:

PAY $24.64 NOW TO AVOID COLLECTION

Acct # 004295469-9

Dear Miss Ruddy,

Your account remains delinquent.

If we do not receive your payment of $24.64 within 15 days, we will forward your file to the Collections Office.

Please pay your account now and avoid further collection efforts.

P. Caponio
Delinquent Accounts Supervisor

P.S. If you do not wish to receive any more shipments, please write "CANCEL" on the above payment stub when you return it with your payment.

I can't believe they're still willing to send more shipments even though they can't get any money for the first ones. In fact, unless Ruddy Ruddy returns payment for the outstanding hosiery, they will apparently keep sending more. That's just throwing good money after bad.

Of course, they're still implying that Ruddy Ruddy actually received the shipment for which they're trying to bill, which isn't the case. Only the free ones arrived, and none after that. So, if I may point this out once again, Ruddy Ruddy just doesn't owe any money at all.

Hmm. Now that I look back on it, I actually wrote almost exactly the same thing the last time I got something from Enchantress. But I was really drunk that time. However, I'm not now, and perceived through a lens of cold, sober reason, everything I concluded last time seems just as valid.

Here's something I didn't notice before, though: Why does Enchantress have a Delinquent Accounts Supervisor who apparently works in a department other than the Collections Office? Shouldn't that be the very department he ought to work in? I feel strongly compelled to write a letter to Enchantress to point out that in the interests of efficiency, they could probably consolidate operations and just take the obvious step of having the Collections Office handle collections, thus eliminating P. Caponio's obviously redundant position.

You hear that, P. Caponio? You're on thin ice. If I were you, I'd start taking a more concilatory tone in your collection letters from now on. Your very livelihood is at stake.

Govern yourself accordingly.

Personal mail

The latest envelope sent to Ruddy Ruddy is notably blank on its exterior surfaces, with no return address listed. Probably another little something from a collection agency trying not to tip its hand, I'll bet.

Ripping it open, I notice that it's curiously empty. The only thing I see at first glance is just a very small, slim, folded-up pamphlet. I unfold it, seeing the word natural superimposed over a picture of some guy nuzzling a woman. Inside, the pamphlet begins its pitch:

O'MY Products Inc. would like to introduce you to a unique personal lubricant made especially for men and women who are proactive about health, wellness and pleasure.

Personal ... lubricant? Oh, dear. Sure enough, there's a tiny sample in the envelope containing just about enough for one test drive.

O'My is the first all-natural product to offer the ingredients Ginseng and Guarana which enhance pleasure without the stringy performance of many other lubricants.

Ginseng ... guarana ... it sounds like a Chinese version of Red Bull that slips down exceedingly smooth and easy.

The inclusion of Hemp Oil provides excellent moisturizing properties to our formula. Hemp is known to discourage yeast, bacteria and fungus growth. In keeping with our goal of providing a high quality personal lubricant that is all natural, O'My has added no scent or colour to its products and does not participate in any animal testing.

Free love ... kindness to animals ... all-natural ingredients ... hemp? The bit about discouraging fungal growth or strong scents gives me pause, but a quick check of the Contact Us page on O'My's website confirms it: They're operating out of North Vancouver, British Columbia. Sure enough, we're dealing with a raging outbreak of hippies.

Come to think of it, that sample tube is actually the right size and shape to be smoked.

What should I do about this? Well, it occurs to me that this might be a good time to call that one old girlfriend from university -- the artist who was always high as a kite.

Next, I'll have to call up O'My and ask them exactly how high one has to be to put the sound of a bullfight in the Romantic Ambiance section of the "Great Turn-ons" page of one's website.

Then I'll read the sample page of erotica (or as they quaintly call it, "romantic story") that appears on the same page and try to decide whether it's hotter than the Harlequin Blaze novels that were sent to Ruddy Ruddy. (It's hard to say. The presence of a "mysterious ranch-hand" is encouraging, but I can't decide whether the protagonist, Crystal, is so named because she's a hippie or just white trash.)

After that, I'll have to ask my vegetarian, Native American housemate why she just stole the steak that I'm cooking, put it in a bowl, and hid it in a kitchen cupboard. She and her longhaired boyfriend are clearly in league with the hippies. (The joke's on her, though -- she removed it from the stove at just the right time, leaving it a paragon of medium-rare deliciousness.)

Then after that I'll ... I dunno. Probably get some tacos, I guess. I could really go for some of those. Maybe listen to some Phish, too. And I should write down down of this cool shit that this dog just told me. Like, what if the whole world and the whole galaxy is just like one atom in part of, like a grain of sand on a beach in some huge world in some unimaginably vast galaxy? And what if that galaxy is just....

Hey, this sample tube is kind of torn a bit. What's all this slippery shit all over my fingers ... soaking into my skin? Oh yeah -- hemp oil.

Oh no.

Ah, screw it, I'm going to sleep.