Sock It To Me, Baby!
Ok, let’s start with a math problem. There are two answers: One answer for those who are perky, quick-witted, and good at math even in the morning (who, incidentally, will be beaten unmercifully with a flip-flop and force to listen to Carly Rae Jepsen in retaliation for their perkiness and good-at-mathiness); and one answer for those of us who hate math and perky people. Are you ready?
Q: Person X removes a load of clothing from the dryer and places it on the bed. Among the clothes are eighteen socks. How many pairs of matching socks does Person X have?
Perky Mathy Person Answer: “That’s easy! If there are eighteen socks, then Person X has nine pairs of socks, obviousl….” *FWAP FWAP FWAP* “Ow!!! What was that fo…” *FWAP FWAP*
(Now, go away and don’t call me, maybe.)
Normal People Answer: [Note: Correct answer] “If Person X is like me, then Person X doesn't have a single f***ing pair of matching socks.”
In all actuality, Person X has one pair of matching socks and will eventually find a matching mate stuck inside the sleeve of a T-shirt that should likely have been discarded during the Clinton
Perky Mathy Person (after rubbing sore noggin following flip-flop flogging): “Ok, well then, if you have one matching pair, that leaves sixteen unmatched socks, then…” *FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP* “Ow!!!!! What the hell was THAT for???”
(The question was “how many pairs of matching socks does Person X have?” I just told you. Person X has one. One pair. Now I know I just met you, and this is crazy, but shut up and go away. Perky mathy bastards.)
Normal Person: “Wait, who the hell has thirty-three pairs of socks???”
(Ok, kudos to Normal Person for trying math, but if there are sixteen unmatched socks, and one matching pair, the maximum number of pairs of socks is seventeen. Don’t worry, I’ll fwap myself later.)
The point is… where the hell do all these socks go? I can tell you that the myth of the dryer eating them is bupkus. I can’t tell you how I know this, but know my words to be true. Ok, fine, I’ll tell you: Person X may have, perhaps, in a fit of malfunctioning appliance-induced rage, possibly dismantled a dryer once. There were no socks to be found, but there were several quarters, a dime, a circa 1978 Luke Skywalker Star Wars figure (slightly melted), three gum wrappers, and something that resembled the remnants of an old bandanna, which was odd considering Person X has no recollection of ever owning a bandanna.
So, what does that leave us with? Sock-stealing gnomes? The sock-stealers actually comprise a splinter faction of the underpants gnomes of South Park
Socks are actually sentient, alien beings that have invaded our planet for the sole purpose of wreaking havoc on the human race.
**Pauses while readers run the gambit of their usual questions, like: “Is he on/off his meds? Why am I reading this? How many cups of coffee has he had this morning? And… wouldn’t the gnomes just take their hats off when they crawl through the dryer vent?”**
I’m serious. Little alien havoc wreakers. Think about it. They drive you crazy on laundry day. I can just hear the conversation in the laundry basket:
Adidas: “Ok, listen up! Here’s today’s assignments: Gold Toe and Reebok, you’re team captains. Take four each and split up. Puma, your team gets dryer duty. Nautica, your team stays in the hamper and hides in the whites. Ralph and Lauren, since you are the new guys…. Ralph, you get T-shirt duty. Lauren, pair up with one of the Nauticas that is different but looks close enough that he won’t notice until he gets under the fluorescent lights at the office. I’m going to make a break for it at the last second and hide out under the dresser. Ok. Everybody ready? On three!”
Still not convinced? Ever seen a white person dance? It has nothing to do with genetics. It’s the socks. Socks cover the feet, feet do the dancing. (I’m still looking into it, but I’m also pretty sure the socks have partnered with alcohol in this endeavor.) And let’s not forget that random stumble or trip. Do you really think that was accidental? You’ve possessed your feet since you were kicking the inside of your mother’s belly. It’s not like you forgot how to lift them onto a step or curb. Yet there you are, falling on your face, spilling your purse or dropping your iPhone, causing its glass face to shatter, and causing you to curse loudly in front of small children and draw glares of ire from their parents. Coincidence? I think not.
If you still don’t believe, think about this: Have you ever seen a grumpy person wearing flip flops? And by flip flops, I mean the kind with the thing that goes between your toes, not slides. (Because, as you know, socks can be worn with slides, and often are, causing the wearer to look like a doofus, providing further proof of the alien sock monsters’ evil plan to ruin society.) Seriously! Flip-floppers are generally happy people. Mellow. They go with the flow and are generally even tempered, unblemished by the subliminal control of the sock species. And women with sexy, open-toed shoes? Oh yeah.
I know this is a lot to digest. But… you know it to be true. Are your socks falling down right now? Is there a hole you didn’t notice before? Did you “accidentally” wear brown socks with a black suit? Is there a piece of some unknown, sharp substance in the toe of your sock, and you have no idea what it is or how it got there? (You’re thinking now, aren’t ya?)
Socks. Evil alien foot feelers. You heard it here first. Remember that when Wolf Blitzer claims to have breaking news about the discovery.
Oh, and I am Person X. Kinda like Iron Man, except without the fancy armor, weapons, and bazillion dollars. Although I do have Siri on my iPad, which is kind of like Jarvis, except she’s better at finding pizza places and movie theaters than she is at, you know, saving the world and stuff. Otherwise I’m exactly like Iron Man.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take my shoe off and figure out what the hell is in my sock. Socks-o-b*tches.
© J.J. Goodman 2013. All rights reserved.