By now, virtually everyone with an e-mail account and a less than complete understanding of spam-blocking software has had his or her inbox clogged with messages offering (for a small fee, of course) to send a letter from Santa Claus to the child of their choice. These e-mail advertisements usually guarantee that the letters will address the kid personally, and will bear a North Pole return address — one particularly interesting version boasts in large type that its letters from Santa are all "Postmarked from North Pole, Alaska." This same missive also announces that letters are "Available in both Traditional and Christian versions!"
So is it a scam, a con, a grift?
Well, that really depends on how strict is one's personal definition of "a scam."
On the one hand, you're actually getting something for your money. There's little doubt that sometime after you point and click and fill in your credit card information, an envelope will show up in somebody's mailbox, addressed to your favorite son or goddaughter or nephew and bearing the name S. Claus in its upper right-hand corner.
On the other hand, what comes certainly won't be worth the $9.95 or $19.95 or $29.95 you paid for it. At best, the letter will come in a fancy envelope and be printed in impressive script on heavy, gold-bordered paper; at worst, it'll arrive in a standard business envelope and look like a badly Xeroxed audit announcement from the IRS, complete with the tyke's name written in illegibly over the underlined blank. What's more, some letter-from-Santa providers probably make more money selling your e-mail to other spammers than they do selling their product, and there's always a slim chance that your credit card number might be appropriated.
The idea of what makes a scam is highly subjective. But if you don't consider the racket in question to be one by any stretch of the imagination, and would in fact defend its purveyors as all-American types who are simply trying to make a buck with an idea whose time has come, then you're in the right place. What follows is a selection of holiday-season moneymaking ideas for the ethically challenged.
Engineer This Year's Toy Craze. Remember, it's not about the product; it's about the hype. If you can build up a good grassroots playground buzz for a cheaply made toy — like, say, "Sir Writes-A-Lot" (silver pencil with googly eyes affixed to its eraser) or "Build 'N' Eat — The Edible Building Blocks!" (box of Triscuits with a tube of model-airplane glue taped to its outside) — you could really rake it in. Or if you're too lazy to create your own, wait for the big gotta-have-it toy to emerge, then offer something that sounds like it's the same thing. Back during the Cabbage Patch Kids mayhem, some enterprising soul ran small ads in the Classified sections of major newspapers selling "cabbage patch" slightly cheaper than the dolls' retail price; those who mailed in a check received a small packet of cabbage seeds in return. Genius.
Collect Investment Capital for A Movie About "The Real Story of Christmas." Target the folks who give big to their churches this time of year. Get 'em together in a hotel conference room, and pitch 'em a prequel to Passion of the Christ, to be released next Christmas. Sell it as their beautiful gift to the whole world, the heartwarming tale of struggle and triumph that is the true story of the birth of Our Lord and Savior. You can live off the money for several years while explaining that the film is stuck in "development hell." When they finally demand results, just explain to them that, in the interest of accuracy, you've decided to go with Africans and Arabs for the key roles — you'll never hear from them again.
Sell New Constellations. Why should consumers spend $50 to have a star named after them, when they could get a whole new galaxy in their honor for, oh, four times the price? Instead of four stars, they get, like, a dozen. All you need is a website and a high-quality printer. When an order comes in, just print out one of those beautiful photos of outer space that litter the Internet, grab a silver Sharpie, and play connect the dots. If the order is for somebody's little girl, link some stars together into something that vaguely resembles a pony, and call it Amy's Gelding; if it's for a newly retired grandfather, make it look like a big ol' fish, and dub it Bigbassicus Grandpappus. Oh, and don't forget to design a nice diploma-style certificate to go along with each order, for the sake of, uh, "authenticity."
Sham Wedding. The weeks before and after Christmas are a favorite time to get hitched — who's gonna question one more wedding in particular, even if it is announced on frighteningly short notice? For the sake of believability, target friends and relatives from out of town or that you haven't seen in a while, and describe your newfound love as a "whirlwind romance." Register at your favorite big-box retailer, hold an "intimate ceremony" somewhere cheap like a public beach, watch the presents roll in, and spend the next six months re-gifting and living off returns. But don't be tacky — keep the façade up for at least a couple of months before things start "not working out."
This article appears in Nov 16-23, 2005.