The other day my apartment mate confessed that she had done something quite self-indulgent; she had purchased a three-pack of luxurious socks from the internet. Whereupon I mentioned that I likewise had acquired new socks, those being a four-pack of cheapazoid black cotten and polyester items from Chinatown.
Almost as soon as I had said that, I realized my mistake.
No man should ever discuss socks with a woman.
They're irrational on that score.
Men and their socks.
"IF YOU WASHED AND ROTATED YOUR SOCKS, INSTEAD OF WEARING THEM THE HELL OUT, YOU WOULDN'T NEED TO BUY NEW ONES!"
Well, actually I do wash them, but once there's a hole, there's very little you can do, especially if they're all different.
"HAH, YOU WASHING SOCKS, A LIKELY STORY!"
About the only thing you can do with mis-matched socks is make little stuffed sock-daemons out of them, and play-act Shakespeare plays or Tennessee Williams. Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, for instance, is highly suited to interpretation with sock-puppets. And the three no-neck monsters are perfect that way.
"BULL-PUCKEY! ABOUT THE ONLY THING YOUR SOCKS ARE GOOD FOR IS PUTTING A LINE OF THEM GUARDING THE FRONT DOOR TO CHASE AWAY BURGLARS, WHO WOULD THEN CALL THE POLICE TO REPORT UNSPEAKABLE CRUELTY TO FOOTWEAR!"
At this point, all my protests prompted even wilder operatic assertions about sock-abuse, possessed scraps of cotton lurking in dark corners, sad little rags drowning their stinky despair in drink, people running away screaming at the very sight of them, cruelty and beastliness on my part, oh woe, and how I am a very bad man indeed.
"STOP TERRIFYING STRANGERS!"
Finally, I tried to distract her by mentioning that her beloved teddy bear (ms. Bruin) seems to enjoy playing canasta. For penny stakes.
Never call a girl's favourite person a card shark.
Bad things happen if you do.
But fortunately her Teddy Bear doesn't hate me.
She despises a few other people, however.
Including the once-again ex boyfriend.
Who had better watch it.
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