O, Sweet Lord, Grant Me In Thy Infinite Mercy a New Pair of Kicks

Dear Jesus, et al.,

Unlike most people, I don't buy my shoes to provide comfort and shelter to my feet (or my "hands of the south", as I sometimes call them), I buy my shoes for the express purpose of jamming up the butt of my many, many, many subordinates in order to get them to work harder. In other words, I need to stay fashionable, which is why I always shell out top dollar during Macy's sales to make sure I have the finest patent leather pumps that money can buy.

And then comes the love affair. Every new pair of shoes inspires me to want to buy shoe trees and an ecologically responsible shoe polishing kit, because it's gonna be different this time, I swear. I know I can change. Please, give me another chance!

Only I can't change. I can get as far as using a shoe horn to horn my "hands of the south" into my "mittens of the south." For a little while. Then, inevitably, expeditiousness takes over, and I start stepping on my own heels to release myself from the leathery confines of the mouths and tongues that have swallowed my feets, boa constrictor fashion.

Here's the kicker. (Get it? Because this is a post about shoes? Kicker? It's a pun!) Stepping on the back of my shoes has the tendency to put a great strain on the relationship between the shoe itself and the massive rubber sole from which I derive an additional six or seven inches of height, when combined with my unusually tall hair.

(Okay, can I just take a minute to apologize for that last parenthetical aside? The one about the kicker? I just reread it and thought it sounded a little bit snippy and condescending. That was not what I meant at all. And while I could have just deleted it, I really thought it would do better to let You, Jesus Christ, and you, my dear readers, see what a humble and self-effacing person I can be, and also how modest I am. I'm reasonably sure I'm the most modest person in the tri-state area. You can even pick any three states! On with the show...)

The point is that, even though I didn't mean to, I caused the breakup of the individual components of my shoe. I am now wearing what have been loving Lee described as "flappy wappy pancake shoes," which I object to because these shoes are actually constructed of 98 percent leather and 2 percent breakfast sausage. There isn't a trace of pancake to be found. Whatever. I need new shews. And some whiskey.

I want you all to know that I blame the writers' strike for this, also known by its other name, the Broadway stagehands strike. And also all the tourists in New York City who are constantly commuting to their jobs right in my way when I'm trying to commute to my job. No, wait, they're not called tourists. I meant gays. I blame the gays.

Settle the strike already, will you? I can't afford to keep buying new shoes without the residuals from the DVD sales of this blog.

Love and kisses,
Matt

P.S. Hey, Jesus, tell Your Dad hi from me. And ask Him where the $36 is that He owes me, that Dead Beat.