Remember the T-Mobile Liverpool Station dance video?
I got this in my inbox the other day:
Unfortunately, I received it the day of, which didn’t allow me enough time to take a shower, shave my legs, do my hair, drill 48 ÷ 6 = 8 into Helena’s head over breakfast waffles, obtain a passport, cross the pond and come back in time for Helena’s first softball practice.
This is one of those rare times when I would have tried my darnedest to embrace the basic concepts of quantum physics and time travel without crying. And if my brain even thought of giving me any flak by hollering YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME immediately before throwing up its innards into my lower intestine, I’d wait for it to finish and then hand it a napkin and tell it to suck it up already.
Its will power, that is. Not its regurgitated grey matter because … well, because that’s just gross.
If I could have done all that, not only would my brain know who’s boss, but I wouldn’t have missed out on being a part of this:
I want to work for T-Mobile. Not because I like their products since I’ve never actually owned or used any T-Mobile devices in my lifetime. But any company who would sign off on a marketing campaign that willingly puts me on camera so that I could channel my inner Janis Joplin and belt my heart out in all of its off key glory to Hey Jude in front of the entire Internet?
That’s just another pot of the coolest beans ever.