After two weeks in these boots, I’m wondering if the bra wouldn’t have been more comfortable. How long should it take to break in boots, and why should I have to “break in” anyway? A lot of thing that require “breaking in” aren’t worth it in the long run. Show business, bank vaults, your neighbor’s house when they’re on vacation because you heard the dad keeps a box of Hustlers in his closet. I’m not proud of that, but when you’re twelve years old, those kind of rumors just can’t go unsubstantiated. What I did, I did for Truth, and the truth is these boots are killing me. My ankles, once sexy, are now red, raw and swollen with dead skin flaking off of them. How am I supposed to feel sexy with ankles like that and no bra? My shins look like I’ve been playing soccer with a bunch of spastic six-year-olds. I know we’re not supposed to use the word “spastic” any more, but you have to admit it paints a pretty good word picture. Being surrounded by a group of short, quivering spazzes kicking away mindlessly at your ankles with their cleated feet? You’d do your best to avoid that kind of mob. You’d cross the street if you saw them coming. If you were on foot. If you saw them when you were driving you might swerve onto the sidewalk and take a few of them out. As a public service. They can’t get to you when you’re in your car, and really, what kind of life do they have to look forward to?
Now, if you so much as smirked at the idea of running down those kids a second ago, you’re the type of person that thinks cruelty is funny, which means you probably designed these boots. Or it was someone like you. Or someone who likes you. They don’t like me, or these boots wouldn’t hurt so much. It’s hard not to think this is personal, like evil boot designers weren’t sitting around one day during a break from snipping off the limbs of cute, fuzzy hamsters to say, “You know what we should do? Let’s make some really painful boots for that guy.”
“The boobless guy. You know, that guy? With the hair? Who did the thing?”
“You could be talking about any guy!” But it couldn’t be just any guy because he said it was the guy with the hair, so we know he wasn’t talking about Stu, and that’s why I need to apologize.
Last week, for no good reason, I outed my friend Stu on the podcast as a bald person. I was way out of line. So, let me just say, Stu, I think you’re a great guy, and I’m sorry for saying you’re bald. I think people should meet you, and get to know the kind of person you really are. Before looking at your head.
Now, where’s my apology for these boots? It’s not like I can return them, because I need them for work. I have a wife and 67 Hello Kitties to support, not to mention student loans, so I need this thankless, pitiless, soul-shriveling and crippling job, and in order to do it, I need these boots. Especially for the crippling part. So I don’t want a refund, but an apology. I want justice for my ankles. And revenge isn’t justice. Revenge would just be stabbing your boots with a hunting knife, and if anyone saw you doing that, they’d think you were nuts. Especially if you’re still wearing them. But even if you have them up on a table and your stabbing them, you’re going to seem kind of weird singing, “Stab your boots with a stab-stab-stabby-stab, stabby-stabby-stab-stab!” Breaking into song is another thing the never turns out well, plus the whole thing just makes you look pathetic, and that’s not justice. That’s a poor substitute, which is what I was after I got my teaching degree. Sure, I thought I would walk into those schools and wow all the other teachers and administrators with my amazing teaching skill and my Birkenstocks. And how well did that plan work out? All it took was one classroom of spastic six-year-olds and I’m sitting here singing about stabbing my boots.
Some would say, “Awww, baby-waby gots some sore footies? Suck it up, ya pussy!” I don’t want to hear that kind of talk, which is why I don’t let my Mom listen to this podcast. But if all this whining makes me a pussy, it doesn’t change the fact that I’m a pussy in painful boots, and you can’t tell me you didn’t see that coming. I mean, really? The puss in boots thing? It’s just been sitting right here the entire time. Like me. And, I’m assuming, like you. Unless you’re listening while you jog or walk around, in which case, let me give you this advice: Proper footwear is very important.
A couple of weeks ago I bought some new boots for work because I have a job that can’t be done in Birkenstocks. I trained for a Birkenstock job, I went to school for a Birkenstock job and I’m still paying off the student loans almost 20 years later now. With a Birkenstock job? No, with a boot job, and notice I distinctly said “Boot” with a T on the end. If I could pay off my student loans with a boob job, I’d get the operation tomorrow and by the end of the week I’d be back in Birkenstocks, but out of work because I have a job that can’t be done in a bra, which is why I bought the boots.