For once, it’s not about McDonald’s. This time, it’s Subway that has been caught coming up short–by about an inch or so, that is. Thanks to some scrutinizing consumers, we’ve been made aware that those famous $5…$5…$5 footlongs are not measuring up. And they’re being sued for it.
Surprisingly enough, the litigant is not a woman.
Two men from New Jersey are calling the sandwich shop out, because apparently size DOES matter, and these men don’t appreciate the exaggeration in Subway’s advertising. They’re suing for compensatory damages. Their lawyer is seeking class-action status after claiming sandwiches from 17 shops were measured at less than the advertised foot. They want Subway to change their practices–either stop advertising the sandwich as a footlong or give us all that inch. The lawyer estimates that the missing bite equates to about 45 cents per sandwich.
Changing that jingle to $4.55…$4.55…$4.55 11-inch longs just doesn’t have the same ring to it now, does it?
The uproar started after an Australian teenager posted a photo of his 11-inch sub last week alongside a tape measure, on the Subway site on Facebook. He prompted Subway to respond. The photo has gone viral, and now others are posting similar images…all coming up short.
as posted by Matt Corby on Facebook
So I guess doing the “footlong” will follow the trend of ”planking” and we can expect tape measure sales to rise and measurement pictures to flood the web. I shudder to think of the sordid images that are going to be shared across social networks among all you sick people out there.
Anyway, Subway responded by stating that the sandwich in the image did not appear to be baked to their standards, although that comment has now been removed from their page. The official statement now is that the term “footlong” is a creative license thing, and should not be taken so literally as the sandwich’s actual size.
I’m guessing the Subway spokesmen are also men.
I’m pretty sure, though, that their advertising has included some literal references to the measurement of that foot. I can’t be alone, because their comments aren’t going over too well with consumers.
I have to wonder if it’s time to turn the focus back on Jared and that weight loss thing. Hey Subway, maybe you could spin this and state in your next commercial that Jared maintains his weight loss BECAUSE he’s not getting that last inch of sub. You’re doing us all a favor by saving us some calories. Yeah, that’s what it is–you’re helping us lose weight.
Think about that, and hire me to be your new public relations person. I’m available.
And personally, I think 11 inches is plenty. (Get those minds out of the gutter folks–I’m talking subs here!) I already feel bombarded this month with an overload of weight loss commercials, gym ads, The Biggest Loser, and the war on childhood obesity. While I may not be through packing on my winter pounds yet, I do find it surprising that now we have a news story of consumers demanding larger servings. And suing over it to boot.
I get it though. It’s a matter of principle. The lawyer states that this “is about holding companies to deliver what they’ve promised”. If you’re going to advertise a foot, you better realize that a foot is 12 inches, not 11, and you better deliver, or we’ll call you out. That inch makes a difference.
And now, as I write this, I think I may want in on this thing (unless Subway hires me as a PR person and then I must disclaim this all somehow). This lawsuit screams for a female litigant, if for no reason but the extra publicity and jokes that could pervade the web. And I could use some extra blog traffic so I’m willing to be a punchline.
In fact, I’d like to take on all these fast food places. I can be a consumer advocate. The Erin Brockovich of the food industry, if you will. I can see my name in lights as Jennifer Anniston wins her first Oscar for playing moi on the big screen.
I get a little carried away sometimes, I know.
I need a slightly different twist to my lawsuit, so I’m going to “protest” by eating at Subway tomorrow, with my tape measure in tow, so I can measure their 6-inch sub. Lord, help Subway if it comes up short at 5 inches.
I won’t stop there either, because I’m not sure Lay’s is putting enough chips in those bags.
And furthermore, I continue what’s now become a soapbox rant by warning all you food establishments that the next time I get a serving that does not resemble the images advertised on TV, the walls of your restaurant, or your menu board, I will be sharing a split-screen image across the world-wide web, so I can get pseudo-famous like this Australian teenager.
If your images show the Whopper appearing as an 6-inch tall burger, I will be less understanding than ever about receiving that sandwich as a 1-inch smashed replica of something you might have put out for your dog that was licked and then rejected.
You see, we all just want what we pay for, what we’re promised, what we expect. We don’t like to be short-changed. We don’t like to be ripped off. And we like to sue.
Size matters, dammit. (And that’s what SHE said.)
Television needs more advertising. Specifically, there just aren’t enough pop-up ads invading my screen. My world would be a better place if there were more logos, animated figures, and flashing ads to distract me from whatever trainwreck reality show I’m engrossed in at any given moment.
With the April 17 deadline looming, the headlines are focused on those who haven’t filed their taxes yet. People who they (whoever they are) have decided are procrastinators, fiscally irresponsible, disorganized idiots, and overall slackers.
When I was 16 and in search of disposable income, I headed first to McDonald’s for employment. 
I’m not especially looking forward to Valentine’s Day. 
But alas, these pushy people have found new employment. Or perhaps they’ve spawned a new generation of overly ambitious salespeople - the dreaded kiosk people. I really don’t know where they came from, but they’re now scattered about our local malls, hawking everything but Aunt Bea’s feel-good serum.
Next, Ms. Hair Straightener Chick…I have some personal issues with you. As you single me out to demonstrate your fine hair-straightening abilities, you’re most likely to see me in one of the following situations: 1) In the already stick-straight style that comes naturally for me, 2) In a sloppy, unwashed ponytail tossed into an uncool scrunchie, or 3) Exiting the mall because I’ve just had a costly hair appointment at Regis Hair Salon (thanks for noticing). What makes this last scenario most insulting is that I’ve often bought “product” while I was at Regis. The bag with the word “Regis” on it should have been your first clue. But never mind that small detail, because I just spent my grocery money on my new ‘do, so I’m probably not the most likely candidate for a free do-over as you hawk that flat-iron that could burn my already over-processed hair into a complete head of ashes.
But then there’s the worst of them all, the lowest common denominator of the retail sales chain. No, Mr. Dead Sea Salt Scumbag, you cannot ask me a question. In fact, you just did and in doing so, you have exceeded your lifetime limit. Not only do I not want to hear about your sea crap, it’s irrelevant what country, ocean, or pond scum it originated from. I’ve purposely put my hands in my pockets at the sight of you, so you have no reason to assume I need a personal buff job. Don’t assume that I will allow you to creepily caress your mystery lubricant all over my hands and nails. “No” means “No”, and if you touch me again, the next time I see you, I will be identifying you in a line-up.
My hair color was supposed to turn out like this. Since I’m here to tell you about it, you’ve probably guessed that it didn’t.
