A Meh-rathon of Sweet Meh-mories

This is a 2-pack of true wireless flame speakers. You either know what that is, or can jump in the forum to ask other people about it.

Why aren’t we giving you more info? Well, we weren’t sure what to write for the Meh-rathon so we decided to look at some past Meh write-ups for inspiration. (You can find a random one here, if you want.) Unfortunately, all that did was make us nostalgic and maybe a little teary-eyed. And then the boss was all “Where’s the write-ups, writer dude?” and we panicked and… uhh… Please enjoy this classic write-up about an entirely different product! Also, feel free to share in the forum if you find one you liked or forgot about or missed entirely.

Dearest Rodrigo,

“Only when it comes to a satisfying end can an adventure be called as much.” Do these words appear familiar? Because they are yours. You spoke them to me some years ago while we scaled one of the lesser Alps in search of a village of men and women who, legend had it, had developed the thick fur of malamutes to combat the cold. It was a bold message about finishing what you start, one that I try to follow whenever I can. Unfortunately, I must err from it now.

If you hoped for some conclusion to my escapade involving Dr. Green, you will be disappointed. Forgive me, Rodrigo. Funds were getting a bit low.

In fact, I was on the verge of selling one of my medals from the Society For Honorable Exploration when an offer came in: I would be paid a handsome sum in exchange for delivering a keynote speech to an encampment of aspiring butlers. So, I put a temporary pause on my personal pursuits, wrote some remarks–titling the lecture, “Discipline And Routine: The Greatest Adventures Of All”–and departed for the bluffside Italian fishing village where the soon-to-be-manservants gathered in tents awaiting my wisdom.

When I arrived, I noticed two strange things: first, the makeshift stage I was instructed to stand upon had been set up on the lip of a cliff; and second, the supposed butlers-in-training were each in excess of seven feet tall, their arms rippling with muscles.

Still, I had been paid to give a speech, and so a speech I would give. I began speaking, making it only through the first anecdote–telling of a time when I had to arrange jewels into the appropriate holes to cease the spikes from descending upon me, and relating it to proper table settings–when one of the men lunged at me. Instinctively, I stepped back. Off the stage. And plummeted. And I would have certainly died had I not remembered your secret for non-fatal cliff descents. I won’t note it here, in case this letter is intercepted, except to say I really didn’t believe you when you told me elbows could do that!

On the stony beach at the bottom of the cliff, waves crashing all around me, I awaited the butlers’ arrival unscathed, prepared to fight. By the time arrived, though, I’d changed my tact. They stumbled en masse down the narrow path, thirsty for a scuffle, but I calmly held up my hand. They stopped, confused by the gesture, at which point, I delivered my speech in full. In the end, there was not a dry eye among them. They admitted they were not aspiring butlers but goons, though many promised to become butlers now, having been shown the way to a better life by my sage words.

They’d been hired by a mysterious entrepreneur who goes simply by the letter M. The whole thing was an elaborate audition to see if I were the man for the job he has planned. Needless to say, I exceeded expectations. We have since video chatted three times, although all I ever see of him is a dark silhouette. We talk for 4 sometimes even 5 hours at a time, and never has he divulged a single personal detail about himself.

At any rate, it’s a good thing I have my SmartStands! I can simply set my phone on one, and no longer do I have to hold it for the duration of our lengthy discussions. And if I adjust the angle just right in my study, I can make sure that M gets an eyeful of the most recent sculpture you sent me. It is a remarkable piece of art. Many have looked upon it, even touched it, and still asked: “Is that a real sheep?”

Specifics about the nature of M’s job are sparse so far, but I’ll be sure to keep you posted. Who knows, Rodrigo; perhaps there will be a place in it for you as well! It would certainly be wonderful to be reunited in something more than the epistolary sense. But only time will tell.

Until our next great adventure,
Gleg Tamperhorn