Yesterday, a day like any other, had been toodling along nicely. No nasty financial surprises, no visits by IRS tax auditors or Homeland Security goons in black cars, black suits, and black moods, and 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.) Her email reads:
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 Middleton 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.