“Happy Socks” Didn’t Just Spice Up My Wardrobe, Those Bright Bastards Also Tried To End Me
My standard uniform of Costco jeans, basic t-shirts, and orthopedic loafers was getting me down. I was tired of being called “Hey, grandma!” and getting sat on when I blended in with the cheap, monotone furniture in every doctor’s waiting room.
I thought I was ready for a calculated risk, a little flair around the ankles. “Happy Socks,” I thought, “those sound fun!” But that combo pack of overpriced, gratuitously flashy fashion socks didn’t just bring color to my closet. Those assholes brought chaos.
The descent into madness was swift, and it began with a hole —
But only on one foot. 9 AM, my left sock gets caught in the wheel of my desk chair and BOOM! Cold spot, ball zone, insane polka dots that look like the love spawn of a giraffe and a rainbow? Garbage. Thankfully I’d had the foresight to pack a spare pair, but those were the peacock feathers and they —
Got me fired from my job. So distracted by my neon orange, Day-Glo yellow, and hot purple ankles, I missed an important deadline and got the can. Was this peacock having a nuclear waste birdbath? Were there even peacocks in Chernobyl? I couldn’t stop thinking about it, so I went home for a less disturbing pair, but those jerks must have —
Jumped out of my drawer and hid from me! I knew I saw that funny pink hamburger pair this morning, but now I could only find those stupid, limited edition “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” monstrosities. I put them on anyway and went out for a night of gin and wallowing, but instead of being conversation starters, the damn socks —
Got me beat up on the subway. I didn’t even make it to the bar, but I did meet a belligerent old gang of radical Beatles superfans. They said my vibrant Mick Jagger-mouth shins were giving them rage and seizures, and beat the shit out of me singing “All You Need Is Love” in perfect harmony. I dragged myself home, firmly convinced these Misery Stockings couldn’t do me any worse, but then discovered they’d been —
Sleeping with my husband?! I burst into the bedroom only to find the right foot of my MISSING PINK HAMBURGERS slipped over his hand, talking dirty to him like a perverted sock puppet. The left foot was pulled over his YOU-KNOW-WHAT, toe in the air like a gaudy sock prostitute! Damn that left foot — I just washed them! But when I screamed “I SOCKING HATE THESE SOCKING SOCKS!” the home-wreckers —
Tried to murder me! Righty stuffed itself inside my mouth while Lefty whipped its freakishly colorful body around my neck like a hideous boa constrictor. As if this wasn’t proof enough that Happy Socks are the marionettes of Lucifer, they then proceeded to —
Burn my house to the ground. I tore the socks off me, hurled them into the roaring fireplace — really, Dan? The hamburger socks get a sex fire, and I can’t even have the thermostat turned up? — but those demons danced right out of it, spreading their flames to the shag carpet and setting the house ablaze.
And that’s why, from now on, I’m satisfied with 6-packs of white Hanes cushion crew socks, buy one get one 50% off with your Walgreens Balance Rewards Card.
Don’t throw your lives away on a whim like I did, my plainly-dressed friends.
Stay unfashionable. Stay safe!