BOOTS

One of the crusty old farts at the cigar bar is nicknamed 'Boots'.
I finally found out why.


About thirty five years ago he took a job at an engineering firm here in San Francisco. Moved out from Denver and started on a Thursday. His first night in San Francisco he behaved like a good little boy and quietly went to his hotel.

But Friday evening after work he decides to have some drinks, as the wife and kids are still in Denver and he doesn't know anybody in the city or have anything else to do. One thing leads to another and he ends up taking some trollops and an equal number of bottles of liquor back to the office for a late-night party.

Saturday morning he wakes up. The bottles are empty, the ashtray is overflowing, and the tarts have left. There's a pair of panties in his out-box. He's hung over, bleary-eyed, buck naked, and he needs to leak worse than a race horse. So he gets up off the floor and stumbles out into the hallway.


There's over a dozen people out on the floor.


The company is behind on several projects and people are working over the week-end.


The first one to see him is the senior partner's secretary - as she later explains, he's got the runtiest dang thing and ugly spindly legs, but what she really notices are the storm-trooper boots.


He ain't wearing anything else except those boots.


Well, other than the smell of bourbon and cigarettes. But you can hardly call that 'wearing'...... it's more like a halo or a battle-aura, really. Though it suits him better than the boots.
Why is he wearing storm-trooper boots?
One word: Traction!
He is an engineer, after all. And therefore acts logically.