Credit for Drew Where Credit Is Due

Two weeks ago, I received my highly-anticipated t-shirt order from the fine folks at Toothpaste for Dinner and Married to the Sea. I brought them home triumphantly for the holidays -- breathlessly awaiting how my parents would react to the Booze Time shirt -- and immediately threw them in the washing machine so I could enjoy them.

Two survived the trip unscathed. My long-awaited drinking shirt, however, was a casualty.

Turns out there was something up with the stitching on the bottom of the shirt. When it came out of the washer, well over two feet of thread was dangling from the undone seam, and though I snapped the thread off, it was still coming undone pretty easily.

My first reaction was to ask Mom if she could stitch it up like new. She said she couldn't, and that she only knew one person who could: Franny, an elderly woman that we work with. (And no matter how much Mom insisted that she would be down with it, there was no way in hell I was going to give an old lady with a heart condition a shirt with the word "motherfucking" on it.)

And because I'm mostly nonconfrontational, when Mom suggested I e-mail the company and ask for a replacement, I was naturally a little uneasy. Nevertheless, when faced with the prospect of never washing my drinking shirt -- which, though not totally unnatural, doesn't seem like a terribly sanitary idea -- or never wearing it again, I bucked up and e-mailed Sharing Machine.

Four minutes later, I got a reply. It was an apology, a request for my size and mailing address, and an assurance that a replacement shirt would be sent out tomorrow.

Signed, Drew.

Now, I don't know for sure if this is the same Drew who is responsible for the content of Toothpaste for Dinner, but as he and Natalie are known for keeping their business ventures small and close to the chest, it wouldn't shock me if that was the man himself.

Regardless, the fact that they responded ABNORMALLY FAST and that they offered to replace the shirt without question makes me want to personally give them a high-five. Someone out there still understands that you can't spell "customer service" without the "customer," and it's always nice to be reminded of that.

So if you're looking to get your favorite alcoholic, grammar bitch, or obsessive-compulsive academic a great Christmas gift this year, I suggest looking at the shirts on Sharing Machine and patronizing folks who'll do the right thing and treat you right.

Oh, and read their comics, too. They're funny as hell.

Marketing FAIL?

McDonald's has a new pro-Chicken McNugget commercial, about rabid fans of the questionable food product that go by the title of "Nuggnuts."

Let's try as hard as we can, for a moment, to put out of our mind how utterly horrid this ad campaign sounds right from the start.

But am I the only one who watches these commercials, listens to the voiceover guy call them by their unusual moniker, and instead hears him calling them "numbnuts"?

It can't just be me.

Special Delivery!

My stomach has been in knots all day today. So what better to lift my spirits than a surprise visit from the UPS delivery man!

(In fairness, I knew I'd ordered these things, I just hadn't expected them so quickly.)

So what'd I get? Take a gander:

First, for the grammar bitch in me...


And then, because I can't put enough clothing in my drawer that mocks the Bard...


And finally, the coup de grace. The shirt that I've been talking about getting for quite a while but never picked up.

Until now...


The day is already looking a little bit better.

The Rickroll to End All Rickrolls

I was at my brother's house, enjoying a plate of bacon and swiss quiche and roasted ham, and watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. There was really no reason for me to watch or being interested in the parade, but it was something to do while chewing. (My family was always fond of watching the Disney Very Merry Christmas Parade, before us darn kids got old and started sleeping through the whole damn thing.)

Float by float, band by band, crappy kiddy act by crappy kiddy act, everyone went by with little differentiation between them. Then came a float for Cartoon Network's Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends. I'd never heard of the show, and it looked silly only with respect to the fact that the blue dude hanging out the window looked like a penis and we'd just made a penis joke. (This is my family, after all.)

Then suddenly, the music cuts out. And in its place, a very familiar beat -- accompanied by a rather striking man in a black overcoat with a disarmingly pleasing baritone.

My parents responded with mild surprise, followed by several affirmations that they loved that song. My brother and his wife just kinda watched with blank stare.

I was laughing my ass off and trying to suppress it.

Because I could have tried to explain, but that would have been futile at best.

Instead, I took out my cell phone, picked out as many people as I could think would appreciate it, and sent out the following succinct, direct, and extremely gratifying message:

OMG RICK ASTLEY RICKROLLED THE MACY'S THANKSGIVING DAY PARADE ROFL!

This Thanksgiving, I was thankful for Rick -- and for his astonishing sense of humor and willingness to take part in such awesome. And, tangentially, to Eleanor and Caitlin, for appreciating it to precisely the level that I'd wished someone would have.

9:58pm

I am so glad I stuck around to see the previews for season seven after the film.

Jack Bauer is going to be put on trial by Red Forman? That may be even more shocking than the not-so-shocking return-from-the-dead of Tony Almeida!

Definitely counting the days until January!

But that's about all I have to say about that.



9:59:57

9:59:58

9:59:59

10:00:00.

9:53pm

Prescient words, Madame President.

Just remember one thing in a few months, though:

When Jack Bauer tells you something, fucking listen.

9:50pm

Fuck you, Frank Tramell.

That is all.

9:47pm

I know I said this before -- at 8:11pm, to be precise -- but Jon Voight, you are one creepy motherfucker.

9:43pm

Dear small African child,

I understand that you are young and, as such, have not been around for the entire run of 24. So you don't yet know that, in any situation where Jack Bauer gives you a direction, the correct answer is to listen to Jack Bauer.

But can you explain to me why you would turn around and run away from Jack Bauer when the one other white guy you could trust was just killed?

I really hope you're not thinking of doing anything else stupid in the next 15 minutes. I'd hate to regret feeling for you these past couple of hours.

9:35pm

Carl is a huge baller, and I respect the cajones it takes for him to take one for the team and not get off the land mine. But what amazing foresight to draw the terrorists towards him before stepping off the mine. Good man!