It’s not the shoes that make the man, it’s the socks. Whether bird or shrimp, hippo or hedgehog, fox or rhinoceros, every man needs a good pair of socks for each day of the week. Saturday’s the Sabbath, and so we wear wool, no matter the season; not so as to punish ourselves, but to remind God that we are forever in his debt. This is wisdom passed down from beak to beak for generations that stretch back to the Jurassic Age, so please, just trust me for once, even if I have feathers.
Sunday’s comfy day. Honestly you can wear whatever socks you want on Sunday, it’s not important. Generally I’d say do laundry then, but the laundromats are usually full with observing animals, so I recommend switching your comfy days with Mondays—stripes. This is my favorite day of the week: in the 1890s in Paris, stripes were all you could get, in any direction and on every item of clothing. Fine by me, an obscenity in Monica’s eyes, who’s always preferred a fine plaid or a houndstooth style over something as “gaudy” and “phallic” as the vertical stripe. Luckily, women have only ruled the fashion industry for under a century, so their influence remains… insubstantial. I thank the gay males of all species for their contributions to the history of fashion.
Tuesday and Wednesday are for my wife, Monica the Nag (why is October always the hardest month?): this is when your feet can get all fancy with it. Plaid, houndstooth, any other complicated, vague pattern is acceptable on this day. It’s the middle of the work week, people are too busy to gossip about who’s too poor and uncultured enough to pay attention to the latest sock rules. Thursdays are simpler for everyone: solid colors, not necessarily primary, but no pastels are allowed. In the 1700s, a pastel sock on a Thursday was punishable by death in most bird communities, a law that was strictly enforced. An ancestor of mine carried out many of these “teal burnings” and expressed no remorse in his surviving correspondence. I’ve nothing else to say on the matter.
I want to take this time to thank my enemies: without you, my life would’ve been easier, if less purposeful. Friday is when I destroy everything in my path: mix and match. My wife hates mix and match. I can wear anything I want on my body, no matter how perverse, traditional, uncouth, or uptight it may be. She can’t stop me, just as I certainly can’t stop her from wearing garter belts and fishnets to the grocery store (I mean, really…). If only people weren’t so obsessed with how they looked—this world wouldn’t be so bad. Then again, why is every dictator and president bald? If all of those Letter Q rumors are true, wouldn’t the world’s richest men have solved male pattern baldness by now, at least for themselves? Jeff Bezos looks like a worm (delishus…).
Our world’s stuck in the long 19th century, while our brothers and sisters have been enduring their own Holocaust for decades in factory farms. We’re just as confused, stupid, and violent as you—so please, don’t get so cocky. We can be horrible, too. Sock culture is just a horseshoe’s jump from fascism.
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