I wasn't supposed to be blogging tonight. I was supposed to have the night off and my home computer shat le bed, so I was to be computerless for a few days. I was still going to be taking notes in my Hannah Montana trapperkeeper, but no real, bona fide bloggage until next week. I had a nice little evening planned for myself. I was planning to head over to Oak Bluffs and take myself on a date. I thought I'd mosey about a bit, hit up some galleries, maybe catch a screening of The Dark Night then wrap up the evening at a bar where hopefully I'd cross paths with a pirate / drug smuggler with loose moral fiber and poor eyesight. I'd even gotten myself a lil' gussied up. (No make up or deodorant). Put on my going out clothes (a see-through deep- v, rolled up cargo pants with holes in the crotch and flip flops) and did my hair nice (pony tail). But the veiny, liver spotted hands of fate (sorry, Fate. Your hands are kind of gross. You should use sunblock.) were busy weaving another path for our heroine. I got a phone call and apparently I had signed up to cover a shift for a co-worker and had forgotten. Good thing I wasn't actually going to have a real date with anybody! They would have been so disappointed that I would have had to cancel! Phew! Imaginary relationship really dodged a proverbial bullet on that one, right??
Initially I was pretty pissed about this. I was sort of looking forward to a little "me-plus-a-possible-awkward-hook-up time". Then I thought about it a little and I figure, what could be better than sitting here in this gallery, listening to Tegan and Sara, eating a cobb salad out of a plastic container and writing on my blog? Surely not meeting people and possibly having a meaningful relationship one day!! uedphsadsadweq34324. Sorry! The massive sob which just wracked my body caused my forehead to hit the keyboard and type some stuff. (In hindsight I think that's pretty much how this whole blog got started.)
On to the post.
An epidemic has swept the island nation of Martha's Vineyard. (It's a nation. Fuck off.) It has replaced the once good, God-fearing folk of this place with zombies. Zombies that all wear the same thing on their feet. Whole squadrons of children run down the street wearing pink, orange, blue, yellow, vomit, shit, death, sadness and fear colored footwear. These things are made in basically every color of the flipping rainbow. And other rainbows that we like, don't even know about yet. The "shoes" that these zombies wear are brightly colored. That's bad. But worse? They have holes in them. And weird strappy things that go across your heel to keep these hellish creations afoot. These demon-shoes are called Crocs. And everyone here wears them. Everybody has motherfucking Crocs.
I've had a nightmare which starts out like a zombie movie, but instead of people trying to eat your brain they're wearing Crocs. In the dream my roomates and I manage to get on the last ferry off the God-forsaken Croc-infested island and make it to the mainland. When we arrive in Woods Hole there are rescue workers and government official waiting there to tell us where to go. A big, burly police officer wearing a full flack suit reached for my hand to help me get off the boat and I'm so relieved. Until I look down, and he's wearing Crocs. Pink ones. With an NYPD Croc-charm shoved in one of the drainage holes. I wake up screaming. I'm still screaming. Oh wait, no I'm not. I just coughed, but it's because I drank my water too fast. The doesn't really qualify as a scream, but it's like a totally stressful noise all the same.
I first saw Crocs back when I was working in a restaurant on the Cape. The chef used to wear them because they were rubber and didn't hold kitchen stink like regular shoes did. He could wash them with a hose or in the dish washer or with beer or whatever. Also, he was drunk and stoned all the time. Homeboy could have been wearing schnauzers on his feet and he wouldn't have cared. The next time I saw them was on the feet of Mario Bitali walking through Washington Sq. park. And then on a member of my ex-company on "Beach Day". Not necessarily in that order. In the case of the former they were pink and paired with a fat red-headed dude. In the latter case they were purple and paired with jean shorts and Navajo print detailing. I don't think I need to really get into why I assumed this fad would swiftly expire in it's stupid, shallow, clog shaped, aerated grave. But both instances made me sufficiently nervous and decidedly skittish around these Crocs.
Then I arrived on Martha's Vineyard and started seeing the things everywhere. The gallery that I work at offers art lessons to kids, so every morning the fucking place is LOUSY with styrofoam shoes. I guess I just don't understand why these people in particular are wearing them with such vehemence. I can understand their role in society. They're good for people who want to wear ugly shoes with holes in them. But these people are usually dressed to the proverbial nines and loaded up with David Yurman and Tiffany jewelry. You KNOW their other shoes are Zalos or Jack Purcells or Tods or whatever. So WHY have they taken a hard left and opted for these fucking decroded, cheap-ass clog things? It's not like they're slogging through muck all day and need extra drainage, or slaving behind a hot stove and need to be able to air their feet out. Does walking from house to yacht to lunch to cocktail hour to dinner to after dinner drink REALLY require such a functional pair of shoes?
Whatever, I fucking hate the things and I like to imagine that I have an army of faeries at my disposal. (What, is that weird?) In my imagination me and the faeries have a staff-meeting, a family forum if you will, at the beginning of each evening. At this forum I tell of what mischief I would like them to perpetrate this night. One night I will tell the faeries all about the hateful Crocs. (Oh, my faeries are all dudes.) And one of the faeries will ask me "But Good Queen why, pray tell, do the evil Crocs have all those holes in them?" (Since the faeries are probably pretty horny little dudes he's leading me to the answer he wants to hear.) And I will answer. "Well, Vijay Singh the Faerie, those holes are for fucking!! Go out into the night and fuck the holes of every single Croc that you can find!!" And my army of faeries will cheer and cheer, and paint their faces blue and white and in formation they will go out into the night and they will fuck the shit out of all of the Crocs on the island. Right under the noses of the yuppies and preppies and yachties who took them off at the end of a busy day of doing shit-all.
I don't know what this says about me but the only use I can imagine for all those holes in all of those Crocs is for faerie fucking. (I'm even doing the annoying spelling of faerie. So what's the word for one step past eccentric? Oh. Psycho. Good to know.) I have a sunburn, and I think I'm still dealing with the fact that I had to work tonight instead of spending the night alone doing the solo-tango of desperation in Oak Bluffs. That might be why I came up with that use for the Croc holes. That could be it, but I actually had that idea like two weeks ago while I was driving and I made myself giggle so hard that I almost crashed. I guess I'm just weird.
That said, see if you didn't giggle the next time you see a pair of Crocs. Just picture a little faerie dude fucking the shit out of one of those holes, all pumped, making the O-Face. Then picture bending down and giving him a high-five. See if you can even come up with a bad mood for the rest of the day.
There is one person in this world who can wear Crocs and not summon my ire. Her name is Helen O'Connor. She can wear whatever the fuck she wants. Why? Because she fucking rules. Stop asking questions, Vijay Singh the Faerie. I just told you you can go out and fuck a bunch of Crocs. What else do you want? You're very spoiled.
Also, I totally fooled you with the title of this post.
PUNKED!! PWNED!!1!!!!!OWNED!FAIL!111!!!!
1 comment:
Masterful weaving of Vijay Singh into the narrative.
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