Daddy Needs a New Pair of Shoes
Well, hello there online friends. It seems that your old buddy Frolixo is in a bit of a pickle. You see, the tattered remnants of my old shoes are hanging off my feet bearing no resemblance to their prior form. In other words, I need new shoes badly. While most would think this is a trivial matter, hardly worth the time for an update, I must beg to differ. Not only is this an issue that I hold in the highest regard, I feel that protecting ones feet against the elements is of the utmost importance in maintaining a healthy body and soul. I would even be so bold as to suggest that this is the most important piece of clothing one can adorn themselves with. Most quality shoes will protect your soft feet from rusty nails, grease fires, and those cool spice worms from Dune. Fashion is also paramount when making a shoe choice. Most people see the shoes you wear as a reflection of who you really are as a person. Before I date any women, I make sure I inspect her shoes thoroughly. (I haven't had a date in three years, sadly). I feel that in this day and age of computers and robots, shoes and foot care is being ignored. Few people realize that without our feet, it's rather difficult to get around. Sure, there are always wheelchairs, but who wants to roll around in a metal contraption giving speeches on "never giving up your dreams"? Superman, that's who.
Frolixo's Fun Feet Fact: Christopher Reeves didn't wear shoes when riding his horse.
Regarding my 6th toes.
Let me go into the details of my feet before we get to the matter of shoes. I’m not sure how I got the 6th toes, but I can only guess that it was some kind of mummy’s curse that was inflicted upon my parents during their grave robbing days. I remember my parents constantly fighting over me, my father screaming “it must go down the well!” while my mother cried, hiding me underneath mounds of hay in the barn when he was drinking and really revved up to go through with this “well” plan of his. It was a constant battle to hide my deformity from other children growing up. While the other kids would frolic and play barefoot, I would keep my feet in boxes, claiming that I was allergic to grass. Soon, I was known as “boxfoot the smelly”, and many a stone was cast at my head. Thankfully my sixth toe made it easier for me to climb trees, and it’s within the refuge of wood and leaf that I spent most of my early years, high above the miniature mob clamoring for my demise. It didn’t get easier in high school. When it came time for the first day of swim class, I painted my extra toes black saying that they were leeches, and proclaiming that the pool must be swarming with them. This caused the school to shut down the pool for the year and my secret was safe, but for how long?
Frolixo's Fun Feet Fact: If you want to get out of swim class, fill the pool with leeches or human waste.
Only small hands can create such craftsmanship.
Because of the delicacy of my deformed feet, it's vital that I encase them in only the finest of material. I'm a very picky consumer, and if I'm going to hand over my hard earned money for a piece of merchandise, I make sure it's of the highest quality and caliber. Only the small hands of an imprisoned child in a third world country can do it properly. While machines in the US can produce footwear 20 times faster, they simply lack the care and warmth of a child-produced shoe. When you put one of these shoes on your feet, you can feel each stitch held tightly in place, as if miniature tormented fingers were tugging on them that second. The exterior leather, softened by tiny, sweet tears, yield to the mold of the wearer's foot, making for a relaxing fit even for people like me. Yes, I refuse to buy a pair of shoes unless I am guaranteed that a sufficient amount of suffering goes into them. Child labor, just do it.
Frolixo's Fun Feet Fact: Kathy Lee was right, the cries of a tortured child does in fact improve overall quality.
Shopping for shoes.
Now that I know what kind of shoe I have in mind, it’s time to do the hard part of shopping for shoes: leaving the house. Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for getting out of my ill-lit, unpleasantly fragrant apartment, but going to the mall can be a royal pain. First of all, I have to find a jump for my stupid 1987 Ford Escort, or just “borrow” a neighbor’s car again. The mall parking lot is always a nightmare. Poofy haired women in minivans with soccer stickers on their bumpers cut through the middle of the lot at insane speeds with no regard for other human life forms. Once I walk the 5 miles from the parking space to the mall entrance, I'm greeted by large orgreish security guards who try to kick me out for not wearing shoes. Once I escape the guards and swing over the crocodile pits, I finally get to the shoe store.
Once inside, the smell of vulcanized rubber, dirty socks, and great prices hits me. I'm always taken aback by the dazzling assortment of shoes that I can try at my leisure. I usually spend from 4-6 hours browsing the choices. The employees of the store always groan when I enter, but this is to be expected since I make them do a fair amount of work. As I stated before, I take my feet very seriously, and will not clad them in anything less than the finest child-made material. If the employees call the security guard to remove you forcibly because they tire of your barking commands and stories about your pig, it is a good time to leave. If you choose to run into the back stockroom, climb the highest rafter, and rain shoes down upon the ape like guards, it is only delaying the inevitable. Here are a few shoe shopping tips to keep in mind:
The customer is always right! Don't let the police tell you any different.
Although bartering works in most Middle Eastern markets, it tends to get the manager of the shoe store extremely irate.
Try on each pair of shoes and run 20 laps around the mall to check for durability.
We have a saying in the shoe shopping business: "If you get a blister, take it back mister!"
Don't eat any display shoes. I can't stress this enough.
Be careful of pretzel kiosks. Like a siren's call, they will lure you from your mission, and you will end up racking up your credit card with armloads of tasty pretzel goods.
"Stress test" your potential purchase by setting them on fire and hurling them down a flight of stairs.
Trust no one.
Frolixo's Fun Feet Fact: Ben "Greasnin" Platt is the unfunniest man alive and has ugly feet.
Lace and Rubber, a lesson in love.
This is a true story about my last shoe shopping experience. A few years ago, I went to the mall to get a new pair of shoes since the current ones just consisted of slabs of rubber strapped to my feet. I went into Famous Footwear. It's my store of choice since I keep hoping to see somebody famous like Jack Nicholson, and ask him to re-enact the nostril splitting scene from "Chinatown". No famous people were present this day, but the saleswoman who approached me looked like she could be. Her nametag said, "Candy". She had a hot little body, strawberry blonde hair, full red lips, and a fantastic rack. I smiled coyly, trying to hide the activity stirring in my pants. She sat me down on a wooden bench and knelt down to measure my foot. As she bent over, I could see down her shirt and gazed at her tantalizing breasts. She glanced up and caught me, making my face turn bright crimson. Candy just smiled devilishly, putting a shoe on my foot, and started to lace it up. One by one, she put the hard, firm lace tip into the hole, threading it through with a sensual ferocity of an Amazon sex goddess. She looked up into my eyes with carnal lust, whispering in a sultry voice, "Let's go in the back". I followed Candy's tight buttocks into the back stockroom of Famous Footwear, ready for the most intense sexual experience of my life. It turned out she had a penis.
Frolixo's Fun Feet Fact: All female workers at shoe stores are really shemales.
Do shoes have a soul?
Excuse the pun. It's really horrible, and I apologize profusely. But seriously, do you think that after you throw them in the trash and they get chewed on by a husky raccoon, they go to a "shoe heaven" to frolic all day on smooth blacktop, or a "shoe hell" that looks and smells like a damp closet if they happened to be a naughty shoe? I brought up this debate in my Religion class at my community college. The teacher failed me, so this question still haunts me. I've lain in bed for countless hours pondering it, sometimes even roaming the nights to ask strangers walking in the park. Most people are stupid and don't have the mental capacity to grasp such a concept and run away. If it is a young woman, they sometimes answer by shooting a healthy dose of mace into my eyes, or kicking me in the balls. What I really hate is when they start screaming. When they start screaming, I lose all focus of the shoe question and get very, very violent. So, E-mail me what you think the answer is and I'll probably read them to my Dad. He's in a coma, but likes to be read to. Also, can shoes speak in tongues? Really?
Frolixo's Fun Feet Fact: Did you know that with a simple shoelace you can strangle a petite female or full grown child with only 25lbs of tugging force? They still have not found out who the ”Shoelace Killer" is.
I found the perfect shoes.
After a week of shopping, and over 35 hours of trying on shoes at local Metro-Detroit area Famous Footwears, I have found the perfect shoes. Oddly enough, they were in the bargain bin for only $12.99. Ladies and gentleman, I present to you "Futurebootz 2000":
Huh? What'd I tell you? These babies can do it all! Running, hiking, mountain climbing, you name it. They're great in the snow, but also serve as a stylish visual treat when at the beach. Since purchasing these masterpieces of footwear, I've worn them to the office and at some clubs, and got some great feedback. My boss liked them so much that he gave me the rest of the day off and handed me a pink piece of paper I haven't read yet. It's probably just a memo about how cool I am. When I went to the Industrial/Goth club called "The Citadel", I got a lot of looks from the crowds. One large bald fellow in chain mail asked me if I was "a fucking elf". I assured him that I was not, and handed him a Jack Chick tract about the dangers of Dungeons and Dragons. I can't remember much after that, but I woke up face down in the parking lot with my pants down and my new shoes missing! Just like "Air Jordan's" in the inner city, these shoes were so desirable that I wasn't safe wearing them in public. Luckily they had another pair, but these I'm only wearing in the house. Late at night, naked except the shoes, with a fully loaded semi-automatic 9mm uzi sitting on my lap.
(Hopping Foot animations done by "Slick Wombat". He must be a wizard!)State Og: We Really Care About Your Stupid Life
Howdy folks, Dennis "Corin Tucker's Stalker" Farrell here. I look forward to writing these weekly introductions, as they allow me to take a break from my hectic job which consists of commanding my secretary to throw pencils into the ceiling while I think of new ways to kill people. For instance, killing someone by taping them to the ceiling and then throwing pencils into them would be pretty good. Wow, I should jot that one down, actually. While I do, check out a quote from this week's State Og:
At this point, I believe that not reading State Og would be the incorrect answer. Unless you like the idea of being run over by a combine, check out State Og! If you do like the idea of being run over by a combine then read State Og anyway, or we'll deliberately not run you over.