The First Ever Spam Email: How Gary Thuerk Accidentally Unleashed the Inbox Apocalypse

If your inbox is anything like mine, it’s turned into a digital graveyard for dreadful email outreach—a final resting place for unsolicited messages begging for “just 15 minutes of your time to explore how we can help your company.” It’s all sprinkled with the latest pop-psychology wisdom from LinkedIn’s finest influencers.

But before our inboxes were overrun by these digital pests, there was a simpler time. A time when the idea of sending unsolicited emails was still in its infancy. And like many dubious innovations, it all began with one man, Gary Thuerk, and a marketing stunt that went down in history for all the wrong reasons.

Picture this: It’s May 3, 1978, and Gary Thuerk, a marketing manager for Digital Equipment Corporation (DEC), is sitting in his office, probably twirling his moustache and pondering how to sell more of the company’s new VAX computers. Now, in the dark ages before the internet, marketing was a tedious business. You had to rely on quaint methods like brochures, phone calls, and the occasional carrier pigeon.

But Thuerk had an epiphany. Why not use this newfangled ARPANET—an early version of the internet reserved for academics and government types—to blast out a message about DEC’s shiny new machines? Why make 393 phone calls when you could annoy 393 people all at once?

So, with the zeal of a man who hasn’t yet learned the phrase “unintended consequences,” Thuerk sent out the world’s first spam email, inviting hundreds of computer scientists to a demonstration of DEC’s latest and greatest. What could possibly go wrong?

As it turns out, a lot could go wrong. The recipients of Thuerk’s email didn’t react with the enthusiasm he had hoped for. Instead of rushing to see DEC’s new computers, many responded with a mixture of irritation and indignation. After all, they hadn’t signed up for this unsolicited intrusion into their digital sanctuaries.

To add insult to injury, Thuerk’s groundbreaking email didn’t win any popularity contests at ARPANET HQ either. The message was seen as a breach of etiquette, and complaints started pouring in faster than you can say “junk mail.”

But here’s the twist: Despite the backlash, Thuerk’s little experiment actually worked. He later claimed that his infamous email generated a cool $13 million in sales. So, in a way, it was a success—.

Let’s be clear: Thuerk’s email wasn’t illegal. There were no rules back then, just the wide-open digital frontier where anything was possible—much like the Wild West. However, his email set a precedent that would lead to the inbox dystopia we live in today.

As email became the go-to communication tool in the following decades, the volume of unsolicited messages exploded. By the time the ’90s rolled around, spam had become such a headache that governments around the world started passing anti-spam laws. The U.S. even gave it a catchy name with the CAN-SPAM Act of 2003, which tried (and mostly failed) to bring order to the chaos.

Gary Thuerk, now known as the “Father of Spam,” has looked back on his dubious achievement with a mix of pride and a dash of remorse. Sure, he broke new ground in digital marketing, but he also opened Pandora’s inbox. One wonders if he ever imagined that his little stunt would one day lead to billions of people shouting “unsubscribe” at their screens in frustration.

Gary Thuerk’s 1978 email was a pioneering move in the world of digital communication—a stroke of marketing genius wrapped in a colossal misjudgment. It showed the potential of email as a powerful tool for reaching large audiences, albeit with the subtlety of a brick through a window.

Today, Thuerk’s legacy serves as a cautionary tale. It’s a reminder that while innovation is great, it’s also important to consider whether your brilliant idea might just make the world a slightly more irritating place. So the next time you see your inbox flooded with offers you never asked for, spare a thought for Gary Thuerk—the man who accidentally unleashed the inbox apocalypse.