First: everyone knows someone who went somewhere and loved it.

“I was just talking to Mrs. Brown, you remember, the lovely old lady who used to go to our old church? Anyway, she was telling me about her nephew’s best friend who was mildly interested in finance, and he apparently went to Average University and just loved it.
She said that her nephew told her that his friend told him that the counselor said it was the number one university to attend if you’re interested in finance. And that’s kind of remotely similar to what you want to major in, so it’s such a coincidence, right?!
This particular boy didn’t actually end up doing anything like that, in fact, if I remember correctly, she said he ended up working at a clothing store, Canadian Flamingo, or something like that, but that’s beside the point. Here, she wrote down her nephew’s email so you could contact him and then get in touch with his friend. She was sure he’d love to talk to you!”

Second: sooner or later, all colleges blend together into one, unidentifiable blob-school.

“Here at [insert name of practically any college here], we offer small classes, professors who truly, honestly, beyond a shadow of a doubt care about what they’re teaching, unique majors you won’t find anywhere else (granted you don’t look anywhere else) and a cute-as-a-button campus where it is perpetually fall!

Come visit us and get a tour from one of our impossibly peppy tour guides who are all double majoring in the most rigorous programs we have as well as being involved in Greek life and 87 different clubs! We promise, [insert name here], you won’t be disappointed with [insert college name here].”

Third: the email propaganda gets meaner  and more demanding the longer you ignore it.

It begins in April with a cheery, euphemism-stuffed, ‘I’m your new best friend’ tone:
 “Hello, Alex America! We’ve heard about your [insert synonym for satisfactory here] SAT scores. A little birdy also told us that you’re interested in finance! We here at Average University can’t wait to hear back from you to set up your visit! Click on the link below to start your Average University experience!”

In June, they’re disappointed.

Guilt trip time:
“Alex America: We’re so sad that you haven’t let us know about your tour and visit! We know you’d do very well at our wonderfully fantastic school! Don’t leave us in the dark; let us know when you’re dropping by! Click on the link below to register.”

And finally, beginning in August, they get mad.

“IS THIS ALEX??? We’ve been trying to reach Alex America for some time now and still have not received a response. If this is, in fact, Alex: this is your last chance, kid. Book your tour now, jerk! Who do you think you are?!”

And lastly, if you do decide to pacify them and go on a tour, you have to navigate the website with print so small you can barely read it at all.

And don’t forget tons of pretty but pointless pictures of kids rolling around getting grass stains, painting panther paws on their cheeks, artistic photos of founders’ statues, fall leaves, and the prettiest building on campus.

“Sign up here!” Where? There’s no link. “Here!” No, really. No link. “Right here!” Are we playing a game of stinkin’ hide and go seek here? THERE’S NO LINK.

Oh, wait. Found it. Under “Campus Tours Map”. Silly me…that makes much more sense.

“We’re sorry! The date that you’ve requested is full. Start the registration process over to pick another weekend!”

How?

“Go ahead, start!” How?
“Click on the link below to star-”

Oh never mind. Forget about it.