Marc
Off Politics
I've come to the conclusion that my right shoe has decided to kill me. There are no if's, and's, or but's about it in my case. Right now, without a shadow of doubt in my mind, the shoelaces on my right shoe have decided that they're sick of working for me, and that it is time for me to go so they can live a free life on the open range with all their other shoelace friends that they haven't been able to see in a while.
I've probably, over the course of the past year or so, deprived them of some serious social interactions. Sure, they get to hang out with the other shoes in the living room when it's nighttime, as I've accidentally forgotten them out there a few times. They probably whoop it up with my roommates' shoes, and party and whatev, but for the most part, I imagine, they're probably feeling very, very lonely. They have to live on my feet, which I wouldn't wish upon any pair of shoes ... ever. Luckily, quite a while ago, I discovered Odor Eaters,***1*** and have thus made both my own and their lives much easier, but still. It can't be pleasant.
I wonder who my shoelaces parents are? I picture phat laces rearing these jerky little bastards. Like huge, RUN-DMC type laces with the knots tied onto the end so they never have to tie their shoes ever again. My shoelaces are probably jealous, and have thus decided that they want to be rich and famous shoelaces, but can't because they're stuck with me. They probably got all upset when I quit playing out in bands because, let's face it, that was the only thing they had going for them. They know I want to write someday, but I'm sure they're just as skeptical as I am about my chances of making it, and, even if I somehow did, they know that writers don't make fashion statements on the whole. They definitely don't want to play second fiddle to some stupid magazine articles, or some interminably boring book. They want to breathe in the sweet juices of fame and celebrity, and they want to meet other shoes that don't have shoelaces, if you know what I'm saying. They want to mingle on shag rugs with flats, and pumps, and the fuzzy slippers that belong to strange women.
My shoelaces are unhappy with me, it seems, and consequently, they have decided to exact their revenge -- my life.
***1*** and, thinking about this right now, I've come to conclusion that, had I been a more well-informed person during my adolescent years, I probably could've saved myself a whole lot of trouble and angst and ridicule. Where was the knowledge about DrySol when I needed it?***2*** Why did anyone tell me about Odor Eaters? Seriously, I did some bafoo disgusting type stuff growing up. For example, I'm sure you all remember back in the day when DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince ruled the airwaves with their multi-colored pants, right? Spray paint all over the place, right? Sure, you do. My mom was always too cheap to buy me any of those clothes. It was Farm and Fleet or bust, but still, I was an ingenuitive little bastard, and I found ways to make those pants myself. My solution was simple: ride bikes to the nearest fast food joint, steal ten to twenty packets mustard and ketchup, take condiments outside and place them in a line, ride bike over condiments thus splashing pretty colors onto pants. Finally, rock out like you mean it.
I guess I shouldn't have been suprised, then, when people began to think I was kind of weird and gross. I constantly tried to start burping contests in the middle school cafeteria. I was always the guy you could get to laugh and spit milk out of my nose simultaneously, if the joke was timed well enough. In the fourth grade, specifically, I remember I had the nickname MopTopCraterShop, mainly because my hair was ridiculously long and shaggy, and my pants had huge holes in the knees. I cried when my parents threw them away. I cried like a big, fat, pussy.
Ultimately, it turns out, I was a gross fucking kid. And some of that carried into my high school years because I came from somewhat of a small town, and I'm sure you get the point. Once a douchebag in Kankakee, always a douchebag in Kankakee.
***2*** if you don't know what DrySol is, you're totally missing out. Let me pitch it to you in a commercial type setting:
Do You Have Ridiculously Sweaty Armpits?
Do You Avoid Wearing Anything Other Than Black T-Shirts or Hoodies?
Do You Sweat In Below-Freezing Conditions?
If your answer to any of these questions is "YES!", you may just be in luck!
Introducing ... DrySol, the anti-perspirant drug of the future!
All it takes is a prescription from your doctor, two nights of seering pain in your armpits, and you, too, can be off and running towards a brighter tomorrow!
Consult your physician today!
Off Politics
I've come to the conclusion that my right shoe has decided to kill me. There are no if's, and's, or but's about it in my case. Right now, without a shadow of doubt in my mind, the shoelaces on my right shoe have decided that they're sick of working for me, and that it is time for me to go so they can live a free life on the open range with all their other shoelace friends that they haven't been able to see in a while.
I've probably, over the course of the past year or so, deprived them of some serious social interactions. Sure, they get to hang out with the other shoes in the living room when it's nighttime, as I've accidentally forgotten them out there a few times. They probably whoop it up with my roommates' shoes, and party and whatev, but for the most part, I imagine, they're probably feeling very, very lonely. They have to live on my feet, which I wouldn't wish upon any pair of shoes ... ever. Luckily, quite a while ago, I discovered Odor Eaters,***1*** and have thus made both my own and their lives much easier, but still. It can't be pleasant.
I wonder who my shoelaces parents are? I picture phat laces rearing these jerky little bastards. Like huge, RUN-DMC type laces with the knots tied onto the end so they never have to tie their shoes ever again. My shoelaces are probably jealous, and have thus decided that they want to be rich and famous shoelaces, but can't because they're stuck with me. They probably got all upset when I quit playing out in bands because, let's face it, that was the only thing they had going for them. They know I want to write someday, but I'm sure they're just as skeptical as I am about my chances of making it, and, even if I somehow did, they know that writers don't make fashion statements on the whole. They definitely don't want to play second fiddle to some stupid magazine articles, or some interminably boring book. They want to breathe in the sweet juices of fame and celebrity, and they want to meet other shoes that don't have shoelaces, if you know what I'm saying. They want to mingle on shag rugs with flats, and pumps, and the fuzzy slippers that belong to strange women.
My shoelaces are unhappy with me, it seems, and consequently, they have decided to exact their revenge -- my life.
***1*** and, thinking about this right now, I've come to conclusion that, had I been a more well-informed person during my adolescent years, I probably could've saved myself a whole lot of trouble and angst and ridicule. Where was the knowledge about DrySol when I needed it?***2*** Why did anyone tell me about Odor Eaters? Seriously, I did some bafoo disgusting type stuff growing up. For example, I'm sure you all remember back in the day when DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince ruled the airwaves with their multi-colored pants, right? Spray paint all over the place, right? Sure, you do. My mom was always too cheap to buy me any of those clothes. It was Farm and Fleet or bust, but still, I was an ingenuitive little bastard, and I found ways to make those pants myself. My solution was simple: ride bikes to the nearest fast food joint, steal ten to twenty packets mustard and ketchup, take condiments outside and place them in a line, ride bike over condiments thus splashing pretty colors onto pants. Finally, rock out like you mean it.
I guess I shouldn't have been suprised, then, when people began to think I was kind of weird and gross. I constantly tried to start burping contests in the middle school cafeteria. I was always the guy you could get to laugh and spit milk out of my nose simultaneously, if the joke was timed well enough. In the fourth grade, specifically, I remember I had the nickname MopTopCraterShop, mainly because my hair was ridiculously long and shaggy, and my pants had huge holes in the knees. I cried when my parents threw them away. I cried like a big, fat, pussy.
Ultimately, it turns out, I was a gross fucking kid. And some of that carried into my high school years because I came from somewhat of a small town, and I'm sure you get the point. Once a douchebag in Kankakee, always a douchebag in Kankakee.
***2*** if you don't know what DrySol is, you're totally missing out. Let me pitch it to you in a commercial type setting:
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