Friday, May 13, 2011
The Curse of the Sock
I don't know when it happens. Sometimes during full moons. Sometimes during a black vexing upon my wardrobe. Sometimes when a local hanging is going on. All I know is one moment I'm happily, cheerfully doing my laundries as a dutiful man, and the next moment I am in a fit of rage! Watch out! I flip tables! I swing a pick axe around and yell bad verses of poetry! Because Satan has swiped another sock from my laundry basket. There truly is nothing more infuriating in all mortality than misplacing a mate to your favorite pair of socks! One week you start out with 40 pairs thinking you're ready to take on the world with your brand new socks. Dear friend, your heart is about to take hefty footwareish trials! Before long you're wearing a blue polka dots on green sock and a tube sock heading off to your next job interview.
Get ready to be escorted out of the building.
Now here are just a few tips of how to keep your cool when you find that missing sock. When your girlfriend or greasy landlord comes over, they will be sure impressed with how you tastefully handle such difficult situation.
First! Picture in your mind your sock being carried by the wind into the poor part of town. A poor orphan boy hobbles over in a dirty shawl with a peg leg and picks up the sock. Tears well up! This is going to be the warmest winter he's had in a long time! Not to mention it will make a fanatic feast in the spring. Pat yourself on the back, you fed an orphan you patron saint of sock giving!
Second! If that doesn't work (if you don't have heart and hate orphans or something) then you can remember those sandals you were going to wear don't look good with socks on under them. Not at all. Socks and sandals are a flashy sign around your neck that says, "Rob me! I'm white!" Tourist fashion is never in fashion.
Third! This one is a last ditch effort - go buy another pair of socks. And I mean NOW! Drop what ever you're doing - funeral, wedding, it doesn't matter. You don't want the last memory with your beloved before she is buried six feet deep being a memory of tearfully ripping your boy scout socks and throwing them into the ditch with her. Better to lose a few dollars on socks than lose your cool and respect.
Curse you socks!
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