Dear Hot Feet Sock Company

I am not an employee, but if I were, and if you had an employee suggestion program, I would suggest that you add a second layer to your sock bottoms.

I haven’t done the actual math on this, but I’m thinking it would double the lifespan of your socks.

The foundation behind my suggestion is from an actual life experience. 

(see figure 1  –  then later figure 2)

 

These Hot Foot Socks were purchased for my wife not that long ago.  They underwent normal ware.  All usage was indoors, on either carpet, tile or hardwood floors.  Often times it was a combination of those surfaces, but never outside on highway or city streets.

Please note that her feet are a normal configuration, the proper size and weight. 

We believe your Hot Feet footwear should last longer than the short, happy life that these Hot Socks experienced.  A second bottom layer would help to achieve this.

 

Thank you for listening.

 

Not an employee.

Mysterious Stranger

 

She obviously didn't want to be seen

or recognized.

Hiding beneath her wide-brim hat

she kept to the edges of the parking lot.

Here's the thing;

I got a strange feeling about her.

It was like her spirit was the thing puffing

out her clothes.  It was her essence that was 

causing the movement, making it appear as if

she was in there actually walking.

I was curious but somehow knew

to keep my distance. 

I can't say she was evil, for I don't know that

to be the case.

I just knew that my spirit was telling me to 

keep my distance. 

It was just a little dusty, Your Honor

 

I wasn’t spring cleaning, I just happened to notice the dust on this metronome as I walked by.  I don’t even recall why we have such a thing, neither of us play an instrument, yet here it is.

Carefully I carried it into the kitchen to wipe it off with a damp cloth.  It cleaned up nicely, and now that I was holding it, I began to pay closer attention to it.  

There was a wind-up key, of course, and a small adjustable weight along the arm.  I’m guessing it is the position of that weight that determines the tempo, or speed with which it ticks back and forth.

Such a loud tick.  I bet, if this were hidden in just the right spot, someone would end up calling the bomb squad.

 What a hoot.  I could get arrested for carrying a live metronome into the workplace.  Until everything was sorted out, they'd toss me in the slammer.  I’d have a record.

“What are you in for?”

A beat.

“You mean you beat someone up?”

No.  Just a beat.

Other people in the jail would move away from me.

And should it get into the court system, I’d find myself answering the judge, who no doubt, would be asking me WHY I brought such a thing into the workplace.  

Homeland Security could possibly enter the picture.  Now that would be something to write home about.  I mean, I could understand being put on the terrorist list, if they heard me singing, but not this.

I walked it carefully back into the den and set it back on the shelf.  I don’t think this is something I care to mess with.

 

 

The Ashtray

 

I came across a pedestal ashtray in the glen.  It had no place being there, but there it was.  Looking around I could see fields, wonderful trees and even a small brook, nothing to suggest an upcoming conference, stuffed with old men and fat cigars.

The air was clean.  I took in a deep breath and the fragrance of lilac tickled my nose.  How out-of-place this thing standing here.  The only thing for miles around that was not of Nature.

It’s purpose, I expect, was the prevention of litter, and surely ground fires.  But who, who should place such a thing here in this glen?

Was it placed here as a warning?  Beware Mankind – your smoking ways shall destroy your lungs.  But still… why here in this glen?

Could it have been left by some ancient civilization whose ship was too heavy to break Earth’s gravitational pull? Did they have to leave something behind?  I wonder.

Perhaps I should take it with me.  eBay is where this should be, in plain sight of earthlings, whose nostalgia swirls like the smoldering remains of yesterday.

Everything has its own bookmark.  I expect this ashtray has simply lost its bookmark.  Without a bookmark it is likely to just be anywhere. 

Binge Residue

 

Having watched approximately 260 episodes of Leave it to Beaver, during the Covid shutdown, I’m discovering mental side effects.  First off, let me just say that I find it hard to believe that anyone with such a diminished capacity as Beaver, could actually function within society without entering politics.

Episode after episode, season after season the Beaver fell for the same moronic gibberish, doled out by Larry, Gilbert, Richard, Whitey, Lumpy, and Eddie Haskell.

And I can’t really cut June and Ward any slack either.  Get a clue people.   Your kid was born without a brain.  You should have called the Guinness Book.

Okay, getting back to my side effects.   The Beaver has ruined television for me.  I’ve gotten so I can't believe anything I see.

On one channel I see Raymond Burr in a wheelchair, while two channels over he’s walking around a courtroom.  And Lassie, with no normal speech or opposable thumbs, convinces June Lockhart that Timmy has fallen into a well.

Am I the schmuck?  Is it me?

 

The Pirate Joke

 

Hellen Snoop worked for WKLD in San Diego.  Her latest assignment was to locate and interview the last remaining pirate.  Word was that he hung out along the boardwalk, somewhere in the bars, between the tee shirt, and surfboard shops.

Hellen took her film crew down to the waterfront late Saturday night.  It was in a dimply lit bar where, sitting there in the back corner, was in fact, the very last living pirate.

          She stopped at the bar and asked the bartender what the old man was drinking.  Rum and Coke, the bartender replied.  Let me have two of them, she said.

As she approached the old pirate, she smiled and set the drinks down in front of him.

Hello, she said.  My name is Hellen, and I would like to interview you, if you don’t mind.

ARGGGG! Was the response of the pirate.  What be yer pleasure?

          How about if we just start off with a few questions, and if there is anything you don’t want to answer, just say, PASS.  OK?

          Ask away, the pirate said.

          Well, I can see you have but one leg.  Can you tell me what happened?

          Ah!  You see, we was doing battle on the high seas.  They were lobbing cannon balls at us, and we were lobbing cannon balls at them.  Well, I was just getting ready to fire at their ship when one of their cannon balls flew over the rail and took me leg off right at the knee.  I’ve had this peg ever since.

          Hellen looked down at her little tape recorder to make sure it was working.  It was.

          What about that hook where your hand should be? She asked.

          Once again lassie, we were swash-buckling out at sea.  They were jumping on our ship, and we were jumping on theirs.  I spun around to run this scallywag through with my sword, when as luck would have it, he was just wee bit faster than I, and he lopped me hand off at the wrist, but there isn’t anything you can do with you hand that I can’t do with this hook.

          And if you don’t mind – what about the patch over your eye?  Did that happen in battle as well?

 

          No Lassie, the seas were calm, the temperature was mild and only a hint of a breeze.  All of a sudden there was this big ruckus up in the crow’s nest.

          I looked up to see what was going on, when the biggest seagull I’d ever seen in me life, pooped right in me eye.

      Well… I’d only had the hook a couple days.

 

 

 

 

Save the Date