To ye, kind and simple reader, should you choose to scan further, you shall find something not unlike, yet not truly a coherent series of thoughts that, if reported to local authorities could lead to me being incarcerated for having been allowed to indulge in too much sugar and corn syrup products.
Recently I said that we suffer from mental arthritis because we can’t seem to come up with new ideas.
Here’s one. Viagra for my socks. They just won’t stay up. There is no stiffness to them. No resilience. They get all soft and wiggly in no time after they are stretched from toe to calf. I walk to work with these cruel winter boots (when it’s not raining) and every step I take, every move I make, those evil, scheming, unjust socks slide down ever so slightly, ever so disturbingly to cause bipedal distress.
These foul socks are like the teenager caught in a nasty lie, steadily sliding down in their chair as they are being exposed for having had a mega-blowout party at home against their parents’ wishes that resulted in someone vomiting on the fancy duvet, while the expensive booze is greatly depleted from the liquor cabinet, and the upholstery on the antique chair you got from grandma after she croaked smashing her head while in her nightgown when fetching the whiskey bottle from inside her nightstand, is stained with oily finger streaks from ketchup chips.
Oh those insidious socks, looking all appealing in the sock drawer, beckoning with their stretchy, blue cotton pattern, with a neatly sewn in tartan pattern that reeks of stability and conservatism, all nicely folded. Silently waiting to be separated and applied to my feet, ankles and hairy calves for a day of walking, sitting and massive frustration as I reach down repeatedly throughout the day, on the way to work, on the train, at my desk, the bathroom, pretty much anywhere, to pull them up for the umpteenth time.
I hear you saying, “shut up and get sock garters.” Well, tell me who makes those anymore? And if they do, that would mean more accouterments I would have to add to my complicated wardrobe of socks, underwear, pants, shirt and maybe even a jacket. I can barely get dressed successfully any morning and adding another thing to the list isn’t going to happen.
What does this sock rant have to do with Stanko & Tibor, the artistic chronicle read by prison guards to inmates in maximum security penal institutions as a form of punishment ?
I’m not sure, but if I am this irritable about socks bunching up on me,just imagine what kind of moronic dialog that will lead to and from there it’s a short bus ride to civil disobedience and crumbling democracy.
Good luck and find me sock Viagra.
Private 5th class who just cleaned the latrines Trevor Druker