It’s like they got the Micro Machines spokesman to write their messages for them.
There is nothing I can say about this that wouldn’t be deeply and terribly offensive to someone.
No, I think I’ll settle for, “STOP SPENDING MORE THAN YOU CAN AFFORD, MORON.”
Depression is a serious and sometimes dangerous condition, but somehow this spam email makes it seem like it’s nothing.
I can’t read this subject line without thinking of the song “Two Tickets To Paradise.” For a brief moment I am unnerved at what that implies.
This one confuses me. The email is for university diplomas, but the subject line is clearly written for a male enhancement ad. You know the ones I’m talking about–the ones that suggest women will turn into sex-starved animals if you take their magic pills.
As such, I find this subject line hilarious if you imagine it being read in a breathy voice. “Your boss will BEG you to take the promotion. Because it’s so CHALLENGING and the pay raise is AMAZING.”
Never say that spammers aren’t audacious.
Get down y’all.
Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, herbal! Quick, Plant Boy! To the Herbal Cave!
Fun fact: I actually bought my first car with a check. Six grand. No lie. All out of savings.
But that’s because I worked in college and saved money (OK, by living with my parents–go ahead, call me a wuss) and actually bought the car a year or two after I graduated college (because that’s when my parents’ old car died).
OK, yes, I think we all know what they’re talking about here. But imagine they were talking about taffy, or licorice. That would be awesome. You reply to the email, and BAM! The next day the postman delivers you a big box full of licorice twists. Inches and inches of licorice twists. Feet even. Heck, let’s be gluttons and say yards or miles. I would eat licorice until I looked like Jabba the Hutt.
And if I were Jabba the Hutt, I’d order some of the smugglers that owe me money to bring me licorice. Every week. From the licorice mines of Dantooine. Or else I would feed them to my Rancor.
That’s it. I’m going to freaking become a deep space crime lord. It’s the only way I’m going to get me some free licorice.
This is indeed true. For example, I no longer need to breathe oxygen to live. I’m not really sure how it works, but *passes out*