(Dear Reader, to fully understand the extraordinary events described below, I urge you to first read this article.)
Yesterday, a day like any other, had been toodling along nicely. No nasty financial surprises, no visit by IRS tax auditors or Homeland Security goons in black cars, black suits, and black moods, no attacks by rabid squirrels desperately seeking substitutes for acorns (which seem to have disappeared in this area...but that's a different story.)
As I blithely check my junk e-mail file, because I am a careful tech-type person, my eyes wander down the list of offers of discount drugs, sex toys to create pleasure for my wife the likes of which she'd never imagined, notices of people looking for me, and the like, and I see an e-mail from one Shelley Lewis. I don't know her. Then I look at the subject.
Holy ghosts of Christmas Future, that's my official tagline. It can't be spam. Has my appeal to the Masters of Irish Whiskey been heard? Is this...kismet?
I gingerly click on it to read the message. Suddenly, Stephen Colbert is no longer the sole master of insane self-promotion. I, a humble scribe, known to few and beloved by even fewer, have bested Colbert at his own game. Read it and weep, Stephen (if I may call you Stephen, now that we're equals.) Here's her e-mail.
I do the public relations for Jameson Irish Whiskey in the U.S. and although we can’t offer you the position of international spokesperson, we would like to send you that case of Jameson and bottle of Midleton Very Rare. Can you please let me know where we should send it?
In Jameson Veritas,
The Thomas Collective
I call the bride over, and I can see a new respect and admiration growing in her eyes as she reads the message. Then we both laugh our asses off. I mean, this has to be real. My newest bestest friend, Shelley, gives her address and phone number.
It is too late to call her, but first thing this morning, I'm on the phone. Even had she not arranged this gift (oh how sad is the English language that all I must call this is a gift. A scarf is a gift; new pajamas are a gift; Colbert's IPod was a gift. Nay, this sublime offer transcends giftiness...words fail.) Where was I? Oh, yeah, she was a charming woman who acknowledged she had the best job in the whole world as her firm does public relations for Jameson in the U.S.
I wanted to interview her, but, good PR person as she is, she demurred and offered to arrange an interview with a real Jameson person.
And so it goes. Soon, I will report on the conversation with this representative from the nectar of the gods. I will let you, my faithless readers, know if I can convince them that I would be an excellent international spokesperson for Jameson...or if not international, perhaps in the Commonwealth of Virginia. And, last but certainly not least, I will reveal my next giftiness scheme. Of course, In Jameson Veritas will remain my tagline for eternity or death, whichever comes first, but there must be other ways to wheedle free stuff from companies.
Stay tuned. And, to Mr. Colbert, don't look back. I may be closing in on you.
In Jameson VeritasTechnorati Tags: giftiness, Jameson Irish Whiskey, Midleton Very Rare, Stephen Colbert