Buuster Fitness - Patchy Dealings
When Aotearoa went into lockdown in 2020, some people made sourdough. Some learnt to crochet. Me? I launched a podcast and set about to take down an international scam.
Whether on social media or via email, how many times have you been presented with unsolicited communications from odd individuals, dodgy businesses or actual scam artists? If you’re anything like me, the answer is a few more than you’d care to count. Unless the content is coincidentally relevant to our own lives, we normally don’t hesitate to ignore, erase, mark as junk, delete or block communications from the sender to avoid it happening again - but when an email from Buuster Fitness landed in my inbox on March 10th, the content it contained struck a chord.
Buuster Fitness were asking to collaborate on Instagram content and were paying $100 USD per post. This offer reminded me of a past-life that I’d since been working to unpack, explore and make sense of, so although receiving the email was humorous, it was also personal (you can read about my own weird journey about running a personal brand and engaging in branded partnerships here).
What you are about to read is the result of a two week investigation into a company called Buuster Fitness. We’ll look closely at the initial communications, meet people who have engaged in the collaboration and go all the way to the FDA. At the end of reading this article, the answer to the big question - should I pay to collaborate with Buuster Fitness? - will be obvious.
Warning: relatively amateur investigative piece ahead, and disclaimer: this article is in no way intended to be an endorsement for the patch industry
On March 10th, I received an email from someone called Diana Garner. This email had three smiley faces, said ‘interested’ three times and featured text as follows:
Subject: Instagram Collaboration
Hey! :)
Our company Buuster are currently looking for ambitious, modern and creative people for our Instagram Collaboration. We need somebody who would be interested to get some extra income by promoting our product - Workout Recovery Patches & Buuster - H2O Water Bottles. Would you be interested? :)
If you are interested please write directly to our Instagram account and our Social Media Manager will explain all the details. Our Instagram account is: buuster.fitness
My immediate thought? Well, isn’t that a throwback.
As mentioned, in a past life, I ran a personal blog and the associated social channels, so receiving this type of mass-distributed email that (poorly) attempts to appeal to as many receivers was possible was nothing totally new. But I left that behind two years ago, and today host a podcast that encourages listeners to think critically about influencers, the ethics of online marketing and our cultural relationship to social media - so it did seem odd that the company in question, Buuster Fitness, would choose me to collaborate when this very practice and the industry they work in were being unpicked and exposed on the podcast.
I deduced that this was a prime example of very lazy influencer marketing. Without thinking too much more of it at the time, I took a screenshot of the email, giggled internally and parked it for a rainy day.
For a few weeks, I forgot about Diana (with such a personalised email, I’m surprised she didn’t follow up); however on March 27th, a few days into feeling the weight of collective dread and uncertainty that came with New Zealand’s nationwide Covid-19 lockdown, I became fed up with the comparatively meaningless sponsored content I was seeing on my social media feeds. I was being presented with ads that promoted courses, tips and tricks for becoming an influencer online - but the algorithm had me all wrong - I wasn’t writing the word influencer all the time because I wanted to be one - I was writing it to query the game!
I took a few screenshots of the sales content that was interrupting my feed and shared these hilarious misunderstandings to my story. The action of this triggered the memory of Diana’s email, and I included the screenshot I’d taken on March 10th in that Instagram story line-up. Before I could say don’t be so petty, I’d drafted up a mock response to Diana, taken a screenshot and added that to my story, too, with a poll - hit send or grow up?
After 24 hours, the poll had delivered a very unexpected response:
To add weight to this polls persuasive nature, one of the ‘no’ responses was generated by me when I accidentally hit the screen with my thumb (Instagram polls are not real life). We all know that the number one rule of social media is that you Always Have To Do What Followers Say - so, with nothing but time, I hit send on my slightly pathetic email response - and waited.
Based on past experience, what I anticipated was an equally cheery response from a customer service rep explaining to me the benefits of the product and the ease of the collaboration - but nearly 24 hours later, I received a follow up email that plainly read:
I could have stopped there. My budding frustration could have, arguably should have, been interpreted as a warning sign to abort mission. But Diana’s direct and non-inflammatory response was very dissatisfying. I’d scratched the surface and a full day of very little stretched out before me. My millennial brain was aching for the type of half-baked connection that our digital landscape provides. I found Buuster Fitness on Instagram and sent a message to their social media manager, spelling Diana’s name wrong in my haste (sorry, Diana):
I figured if my Diana was unable to provide me with the sales spiel about why I’d be the perfect collaborator for Buuster Fitness, she might at least be able to tell me how the company got their hands on my personal email address - so after sending that Instagram message and sensing the threat of an ancient feeling described as boredom, I hit reply on her email, too.
I woke the next morning, and, to the delight of my dopamine-starved brain and still-relaxed schedule, found I’d received a reply from both Diana as well as Buuster’s social media manager via Instagram - but these replies weren’t quite what I expected. Diana had not answered my question - in fact, she hadn’t diverted from her previous script - and the Instagram reply seemed a little odd:
(Buuster really do love the word ‘interested’)
I was getting the impression that perhaps it wasn’t a real human who had responded to either of my messages. I took a screen-grab of the social media manager’s dissatisfying reply and created a follow up Instagram story with an image of a robot that said, half-jokingly, I’m going to get to the BOT-tom of this (she’s good).
In posting this, I figured I was also giving Buuster Fitness 24 hours to check my profile, click on my story and gain the entirely correct insight that I was going to be a very complicated collaborator.
Though it doesn’t always play out seamlessly, employing an auto-responder is not a crime, and it’s here that I genuinely thought this tale would end; however, the plight to understand more about how Buuster had found my profile and why they decided to reach out to me was becoming a compounding source of distraction from state-of-the-world- anxiety - so I replied with a similar line of questions about why they wanted to collaborate with me.
To this, I received yet another auto-reply (four so far - but who’s counting?) - and this message appeared to assume I’d expressed interest in the collaboration as I was immediately linked to Buuster’s collaborative terms and conditions. If I was frustrated at talking to a bot before, I was now chomping at the bit for some real Buuster human interaction. In the plight to save the creative energy that Buuster thought I possessed, I copied and pasted the same message over and over again until I got the attention of an actual person - and persistence eventually paid off.
I couldn’t help but sense a tone shift.
Where were the exclamation marks? The emojis? Where was the word ‘interested’? And what exactly did Buuster mean by my style? Please let me feed my own sense of coolness by reassuring you that I do have great style (ask my friends); but that aside, all it would take is one look at my profile to learn that I’m no longer an attractive target when it comes to fitness related branded partnerships on social media - so why were they bothering to persist?
After a few more equally dissatisfying messages (they also like my creativity and just found me randomly), things became far less stylish. In fact, they became a little odd.
Buuster Fitness proceeded to send me an unsolicited screenshot that featured the personal Paypal information of an influencer they’d worked with.
Details have been blanked out in this article for privacy protection
It’s definitely a weird world is influencer marketing, but never in my time have I been sent the personal information of a stranger in an effort to get my interest over the line.
And note - at this point, I’ve not questioned Buuster’s integrity when it comes to making a payment. I never expressed doubt or requested ‘proof’ that they upheld their end of the collaboration. I was simply interested in why they thought a collaboration between their fitness-product and a social media sceptic would be a partnership made in capitalist-heaven.
They’d sent me the details, so I thought it couldn’t hurt to learn more about the (recently paid) influencer behind the image Buuster had sent. I searched her handle and what I discovered next - was unexpected.
This person’s name is Sarah E Evans. Her bio informed me she’s a cover model, a Fitness Gurls Athlete and a bona-fide Playboy playmate.
So.. Hang on. Wait a second. I looked back at the Paypal screenshot Buuster Fitness had sent me and - yep - it would appear that I’ve just received the personal website, email address and phone number of a Playboy model with nearly 90,000 followers.
This left me curious about two things:
In what world would a reputable company send you the very personal information of anyone, let alone that of a Playboy playmate?
Without being required to regularly appear with limited clothing items on, it appears as if Buuster Fitness was willing to pay me the same amount as Sarah E Evans to push their product (is this progressive?)
For the purpose of this article, I chose to explore point one.
As I looked through the comments on the collaborative post between Buuster and Sarah E Evans, there were many sentences that included the words ‘sexy’ and ‘hot’, as well as lots of this:🔥 - but one particular comment stood out against the rest:
If this is the type of interaction I can expect from a collaboration with Buuster, perhaps I should accept their offer. But there was also a comment, since removed, which read as follows:
“Hey, I sent you a DM as I was also recently contacted by this brand. I thought I should let you know that they’ve shared your personal contact and Paypal information with me xx”
As this described my exact experience, I reached out to this person to enquire further about what they knew. I also sent a DM to Sarah E Evans herself for comment, joining a long line of rose-petal-skin proclaiming males (unfortunately, I’m still in line waiting for a reply).
Sophie who had left that comment had received the same initial email from Diana as me. She had contacted the ‘social media manager’ on Instagram as instructed, and a conversation ensued that actually flowed pretty nicely with their response system in place (unlike the sh*t-storm of automated communications I’d experienced).
After Sophie had received the T’s and C’s from Buuster, she’d very politely stated that the collaboration was not suitable to her. As a side, she then questioned the reason they pay in USD when they appear to be a European based company.
To this, Buuster’s response veered a little of piste.
‘That’s super! To register in the collaboration and to get our patches and water bottle, please fill the registration form and let us know when you finish it.”
Let this be a lesson in why automated communications are not necessarily the future.
Sophie again very politely stated, “I don’t think you read my reply but thank you”. The next message Sophie received? The screen-grab containing Sarah E Evans’ personal details. Understanding the situation perfectly, Sophie responded with “did you seriously just share the bloggers contact information with me???”
The social media manager’s reply?
“Yes”
I began to dig deep into the imagery of Buuster’s hashtags - #BuustYourLife and #Buuster - and what I uncovered was a bit of a mixed bag. There were several accounts run by real, 3D human beings, who appeared to have collaborated with Buuster without any obvious issue. These people had varied follower accounts between 300 to 10,000 and the brand of influencer varied from fitness to Cosplay. In the mix was also a screenshot that featured a similar email to the initial one I’d received from Diana with a caption reading:
‘For anybody who does #collabs DO NOT reply back to Buuster.fitness it is a scam ! You will not get the products, you will not get #compensation. Hopefully this will save others time and money.’
I reached out to this person and, wary of my own confirmation bias (see: social media user turned sceptic), also sent messages to the people who had published Buuster content to see whether any of them had experienced a successful partnership.
Over the next few days, I continued to receive messages back from people who had got to the point of sharing photos that tagged Buuster, and their stories varied very little. Everyone who’d agreed to collaborate had received the fitness recovery patches (apparently the packaging looks nice); all had experienced some strange communication if they questioned the validity of the company; and at the time of publishing, not one person had received the water-bottle they’d been promised.
Remember the T’s and C’s I’d been linked to earlier?
At the time of publishing not one person had received the water bottle, which renders them unable to send Buuster photos with that product. This, according to Buuster, means that they do not have to pay them for the collaboration. Some of those I spoke to remained optimistic (‘apparently shipping is taking longer at the moment’, ‘they said it would arrive sometime in April’); but some were less convinced.
Molly, who had shared the screenshot of her initial email from Buuster and called it out for being a scam, told me that Buuster had cited Coronavirus as an excuse for the water bottle not reaching her. When asked if she could be paid $300 for the photos she had supplied, Buuster leant on their T’s and C’s, saying that until they had six photos, they did not have to pay. Buuster has since stopped responding to Molly.
Kelsie had shared three photos of herself with the recovery patches on and told me the same thing as above - that Buuster had not paid her because she hadn’t received the water bottle and could not fulfil the six photo requirement. As Kelsie was discussing the deal, she’d also enquired about the comments that had started to pop up on Buuster’s images which warned people to avoid them. Buuster had replied to Kelsie’s concerns with ‘those people are stupid'. ‘Just block every single person who write to you.’ ‘We don’t scam anyone.’
Convinced?
The people I was in communication with kept mentioning a registration fee, a $25 upfront cost that Buuster requires for the honour of collaborating with them. Never in my lifetime have I heard of anyone having to pay to engage in a branded partnership with a company on social media…
I got back in touch with one of my main sources of dopamine to see if I could get more info:
Bingo.
Here’s where the link took me:
I finished reading the above it felt as if I, myself, had asked for the opportunity to be a Buuster collaborator. For people familiar with branded partnerships, the above was likely an immediate sign to end it there - but for those who are a little less experienced, you can see how the slick-ish Buuster set-up could prove persuasive.
At this point, I was so deep in this Buuster Fitness malarkey that if my partner was going to get to interact with me over the next several weeks he was going to have to talk about Buuster, too. In a display of ultimate commitment, he started to do his own sleuthing and uncovered the following.
Patch MD are a company who also specialise in this patch business. When looking through their Facebook posts, my partner couldn’t help but notice some very distinct similarities between Patch MD content and certain Buuster reviews. Perhaps I need my glasses subscription updated (difficult during lockdown) - but it seems there’s something very spooky happening with these competing company images:
There’s a Review Policy on Buuster’s website, so let’s check to see what they would deem a violation:
I reached out to Brylee Williamson, the model featured in the fourth image, to see if she knew that either of these companies were using her content. It came as little surprise at all to learn that Brylee had sold Patch MD the rights to her image, but had no idea who Buuster was, let alone that they were using her photo. Brylee said:
"When I see a photo that I’ve spent time on, crafting a unique idea for a brand to make sure a story is told, seeing it’s been stolen makes it feel like the time and effort I put into something is wasted. This happens way more than we know because a person can't be on the internet 24/7."
As a freelance writer, I was also interested in whether Buuster had hired someone to write their website words. I located a particularly jargon-esque smattering of copy on Buuster’s website, typed it into the Google search bar and was immediately directed to the website of another competing patch company, Vitamin Patch Club. Can you see any similarities?
https://www.buuster-store.com/
https://vitaminpatchclub.com/pages/about
I reached out to Vitamin Patch Club to ask them whether they knew that their copy had been re-purposed. Shane Griffin, CEO, supplied the following comment:
“Sadly this business is ripe with fraudulent and scrupulous people that are just in it to make a quick buck. We always approached our business ethically and with the customers health as a priority. As such we find ourselves constantly having content and IP stolen or misrepresented and it is very disappointing.”
Now, let’s sit back, put our hands behind our heads and question everything we see and read on the internet.
But wait, there’s more to question.
Trustpilot is a review platform that’s free and open to all - and when I searched Buuster Fitness, I was in for a treat. There were a total of two glowing five star reviews, but something odd was happening with the one star reviews (of which there were ten):
https://nz.trustpilot.com/review/buuster-fitness.com
Let’s look at the top paragraph of the Buuster Review Policy again:
When looking through Buuster’s website with my untrained legal eye, more than a few flags were waving red; the T’s and C’s can be changed at any time without warning (which mean they don’t provide much safety for anyone collaborating with Buuster); the business operates under the (relatively relaxed) laws of Malta; and Buuster also lean on the claim that they are FDA registered A LOT.
https://www.buuster-store.com/pages/about-us
https://www.buuster-store.com/pages/buuster-collaboration-terms-conditions
https://www.buuster-store.com/
On the day of finalising this article, I received a reply from the FDA themselves:
“FDA does not have a drug facility registration record for “Buuster” and the “FDA Registration Number” below does not refer to a valid drug manufacturing facility identifier in our system.”
Buuster’s response?
We’ve gone from one unsolicited email to Playboy playmate and all the way to the FDA - so aside from the fact that Buuster Fitness are not operating with integrity - what does this amateur exposé of one single company, this drop in the ocean of dodgy dealings that occur across social media, leave us with?
In speaking with people who’d collaborated with Buuster, they’d been told that people who questioned Buuster were stupid, that not working with them was ‘their loss’, that the drink bottles were taking so long to arrive because of Coronavirus - and Buuster are constantly learning. As I was exploring the lay of the land, I knew that one person who had questioned the $25 fee received a reply that simply spelt out what they’d get in exchange - while the response to my query a few days later went like this:
In the case of Buuster, they’ve nearly nailed the smoke and mirrors. They provide a fitness industry product that’s popular (but not proven). They have accounts with large followings. They have an ‘official’ communications system in place. They supply ‘proof of payment’, albeit unethically. They have a website that features convincing (stolen) content. They relentlessly promote an FDA number which doesn’t exist.
Buuster have thought out the process and put in the groundwork to leverage the mindset and pockets of people who might be striving for something beyond just cash. In our sea of disinformation, stolen IP, questionable products and dodgy businesses, Buuster Fitness is but one minute example of an Insta-scam that operates using striving social media users as their target market - and one that continues, right now, to get away with it.
Most of the organic Buuster Fitness collaborative images have been deleted down, now. Who would continue to publicly promote a company that gave them nothing but a ‘recovery patch’ and a collaboration complex? On posts that features #Buuster or #BuustYourLife, there are comments that implore people not to work with them, and say that it’s all a scam (some of these are published from burner accounts). I’m part of a group of people who are sharing their Buuster experiences and trying to get them taken off Instagram. Buuster’s handle has inexplicably changed from Buuster.Fitness to Buuster.Official. Three new glowing reviews have popped up on Buuster’s Trustpilot page, which refer explicitly to successful collaborations, and go as far as saying ‘The people who leaves bad comments just don’t understand how the official collaborations works.’
In knowing that our online space is unsafe, unregulated and even dangerous, the thing that struck me most through this process? It’s not that Buuster exists. It’s is not the unsolicited direct communication, which we are all oversaturated with. It’s not the coercive nature of this scam. It’s not the fact that people are willing to pay the $25 fee. It’s not that when I went a question too far, they replied with the following insidious and malign messages, which, as one individual, ultimately and unfortunately ended this investigation:
The thing that struck me most and made me slightly wary was the realisation that there are companies lurking on the fringes of our inboxes and DM’s who will similarly succeed in luring people in - because even if Buuster Fitness disappears, the things that our social media space will continue to stimulate, exacerbate, intensify and amplify, are our very human wants; our hunger for validation, our desire for attention, and the red flags we can overlook in favour of being seen as someone who resembles success.
I could see these wants in a screenshot from someone who was negotiating with Buuster after not being paid:
I could see them when asking people who had paid to collaborate whether they thought Buuster was a scam:
I could see them when asking someone if it was ok to use their first name as part of this article:
But as someone who was once eager to engage in branded partnerships and collaborations, perhaps in reading those messages and assigning reason, I was simply ruing a past life and seeing fragments of my own vulnerabilities, my own secret desires, starkly reflected back at me.