Feetures! I love you! (making a heart symbol with my feet)

I wear socks.  And occasionally underwear.  But never both at the same time.  Can you guess which one I am not wearing right now?

This morning, pre-run, I discovered a hole, possibly from overuse, in one of the aforementioned items of clothing.  Overuse?  The hole definitely wasn't in my underwear. 

The hole was in a one of my many pairs of Feetures! socks.  Yes!  The exclamation point is theirs!  For emphasis!  To let you know that their socks are that exciting!

But despite their grammatical over exuberance, I really do like their socks.  I own a drawer full of their black and white no-show (just like my underwear) socks.  And today, a pair that was just shy of its first birthday, sprung a hole in one of the middle toes.

In Feetures! defense, I have some wickedly disgusting toes.  Nails that have fallen off and regrown into what appears to be a mollusk-like form, alternatingly crusting and oozing blisters, a stink that causes our cats to try to bury my shoes, athlete's foot trying to make a northbound run, and interdigital hair that would make even a chimpanzee stare.  There is a better than average chance that the sock was dissolved by an acidic chemical process occuring inside my running shoes: heat + microorganisms = unknown corrosive byproduct.

Whatever fate befell the sock, Feetures! has a lifetime guarantee.  Pretty incredible to consider, since if something goes wrong on our television past our 91st day of ownership, I guess I'll just carry it out to the garbage can (after cannibalizing it for rare earths, of course).   

Like any other product warranty, I figured that I would have to send in the socks at my expense (presumably so that a guy dressed in a biohazard suit could incinerate them), pay a processing fee, and then pay shipping back for a new pair.  This morning, I swallowed my pride and called their customer service number to ask for a "warranty claim for my socks."  No immediate snickering or discernible condescension, so I continued.  A nice lady took my name and address, asked me what happened to the sock, and said she would send me a new pair.  Seriously?  No need to produce long-since-trashed receipt or mail my putrid laundry back to the factory?  You just won me over for life, Feetures!  The way to my heart is apparently through my feet.  My foul, noxious feet. 

I may go commando, but never a shod step shall I take without my Feetures! (does that need a period or can I just end with their exclamation point?)