In the 18 months that I’ve served as the Campus Times Humor Editor, I would estimate I have sent at least seven emails. Some of those emails were long. Some of them were short. Some even had multiple recipients!

But those seven (maybe eight) emails had one thing in common: They were all sent from the official CT Humor gmail account, which dates back to ancient times (Jan. 2013). I know the account was started then because, in the seven years it has been active, not once has the inbox been cleaned out. Every email ever received by the CT Humor editor is still accessible.

Most of these emails are unremarkable — lots of shared Google Docs, people asking how to get involved with the CT, etc. There are a few serious emails where UR students accuse the CT of various journalistic missteps. Reading these context-free bits of drama gives the part of your brain that makes you stare at car crashes a healthy wash of serotonin. 

But the Humor inbox is like the ocean — if you go really deep, farther than sunlight and the reach of God, you find some truly alien creatures.

And yes, this article has screenshots.

 

The Mystery Invoice

The beauty of the Mystery Invoice is in its details. There’s nothing new about email scams where some previously uncontacted party shows up and demands payment for something you have no memory of. Everyone knows these scams are sent out blindly, which explains hitting up the Humor Section’s budget of nothing dollars and zero cents. But the password, the half-assed password!

Do they even want my money?

 

The Campus Times is printed on flat paper, ergo the Earth is flat as well

As easy as it is to dunk on flat-earthers, I don’t enjoy doing it very much. Excluding the “debate me” assholes who are only involved with the pseudoscience to practice arguing in support of an unwinnable cause, flat-earthers demonstrate a clear scientific curiosity that should be nurtured. But because of a simple misunderstanding and the reflexive haughtiness of the greater scientific community, they are perpetually scorned and driven even further to the edges of the very round Earth. Making fun of flat-earthers for their confusing scientific beliefs feels like punching down.

Which is why I elect to instead make fun of the batshit crazy emails they send.

I love to get together with two of my American Millennial classmates and figure out which one of us thinks the Earth is a flat plate supported by an endless tower of turtle shells.

This paragraph introduces a possibility that I very much want to believe: This guy is channeling the Christian devil (“Lucifer”), who wants us all to think that the Earth is flat. Check those conflicting subjects: “in MY book” vs. “LUCIFER reveals.”

Does this make this author a Satanist? Is he actually opposed to flat-earth theory, given the evil nature of Lucifer, and thus trying to warn us that God wants us all to believe in globes? And what does this have to do with the third of American Millennials who think “The Voyage of the Dawn Treader” is nonfiction? 

Alas, I have not read the free downloadable e-book and do not know.

(As a side-note, this email gets bonus points for cc’ing in not just the CT Humor account, but every staff and student account associated with the school newspapers at Syracuse, UB, and Vassar. Which of these three Universities supports flat-earth theory is unknown at this time.)

 

Arby’s. Just Arby’s.

As said before, the majority of the emails sent to the Humor account are either shared Google docs or article pitches. After that, it’s mostly stuff from Arby’s.

Bless you, mysterious former Humor Editor who subscribed to the Arby’s promotional newsletter. Despite personally knowing three of my predecessors, I have no way of knowing exactly who signed me up for eternal meat updates because they did so under this name:

Visionary.

Did you notice, by the way, the personal appeal Arby’s is making to me with the way they phrase their subject lines and openings? Because that’s a running theme in these emails.

I feel seen by you, Arby’s. I feel warm all over, as though I’m covered in melted provolone and gabagool.

There’s the personal appeal again, with them listing my surreal account name in the subject line. Is this sandwich really going to be worth setting up the whole dining room? Has anyone ever seen an Arby’s product and thought, “Oh man, I gotta sit down and cherish this lunch mistake?”

Now this is the attitude I expect Arby’s to have, that “Get a load of how unhinged we made a sandwich that’s just two different cow products put together” kind of energy. How else can their emails unnerve me?

This was the subject line that made me scroll back up to the top of my inbox, close gmail, and go live in a drained YMCA pool for awhile. If you’re concerned about my wellbeing, you can Grubhub a Loaded Italian to the New Jersey YMCA of your choice, and the shared water filter system will float it my way eventually.



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