WHAT A CROC!

What is the deal on humanity’s obsession with footwear? The mania with Crocs, the plastic footwear that hit the market several years ago is remarkable. They seem to be modeled after the famed Dutch boy wooden shoes often offered to tourists as trinket souvenirs when in the Netherlands. It’s not enough to be taking home a model windmill or Delft blue dinnerware when in the Nordic region, now we’re wearing enough replica footwear to equal the gross national product of one of those countries in the land of the splintered foot. It’s enough to make you want to change your name to Inga or Sven! It makes one wonder about a place where marijuana is legal, and if the ground zero of the Croc’s idea came from a later night college party in Amsterdam after making fun of the locals wearing wooden shoes! Those parties are like the American ones where someone ends up with underpants on their head and having the palm of their hands super-glued to their temples so when the drunken fool wakes up he looks like he’s in a constant state of panic and shock. Apparently higher education parties in then Netherlands are paying bigger dividends than their American counterparts. You haven’t seen the “underwear helmet” on the market yet have you?

Now of course there has been some negativity attached to this ingenious footwear product; the cost for one. Genuine Crocs (the original) cost upward of $50 a pair. Remember they are just molded plastic! The rest of society’s slobs would rather take the Chinese import knock offs available at Rip-Off- A-Mart for $5 a pair. These are the same folks that produce counterfeit auto part so that when you use their $1.95 set of hubcaps they come rolling off the car somewhere on the higheway. Ever see a stray hubcap? Now you know how it got their, all alone on the side of the road. As they say in the Far East “What a bah-gin!”

The Croc shoes have more holes in them than a block of Swiss cheese (another famous invention from the Netherlands). That however is really a benefit. If you’ve spent any time wearing leather enclosed, or athletic shoes that choke the air to your sweating feet then you know the benefit to Crocs. They are both cooling and aromatic. That cuts both ways depending on the company you are trying to impress or offend.

These shoes are also touted as good for diabetics in that they promote circulation of the extremities. Not that it’s a bad thing but many diabetics could benefit more from a regular exercise program to eliminate their obesity than stuffing the girth of swelled little piggy’s onto a very expensive and cleverly formed piece of plastic. Increasing blood flow through regular workouts is much better than standing at the hot dog stand at Coney Island in a pair of Crocs glomming down ungodly meats of unknown ingredients, and cholesterol laden French fries cooked in peanut oil and drenched in vinegar. The sneaking suspicion however, is that per capita, Crocs are owned by more couch potatoes than Olympic athletes, though there is no empirical evidence of that to date.

Until one tries on a pair of these foot products that seems to have cornered the market, they will be deceived. Once trying them the patron will be surprised. They are comfortable and habit forming for the feet. As a child if you had to wear shoes of plastic you would likely have been embarrassed enough to seek the first freight train to throw yourself in front of; much the feeling many youngsters use to have when having to wear Flip-Flops pushed on them by their cheap-skate parents during vacation. Crocs are the newest fashion annoyance since the invention of the flip flop. What’s worse than walking on plastic? Walking on Styrofoam with a strap between your toes and making a slapping noise like a Clydesdale coming down the sidewalk. They defy silent movement. Don’t try to sneak up on prey in them or you’ll be the one to get eaten. Get in on a seminar of Flip Flop wearers, and you’ll think you’re in a three stooge’s convention with all of that repetitive slapping.

For all the drawbacks, wearing this new accessory to your regular beachwear is quite useful, and a head turning experience. How many places can you wear neon green or orange shoes enough to blind the average person into looking the other way when going to church services, and yet still be accepted? You are a sinner after all so why not display your fashion sin in bright eye-popping colors?

Of course the person that invented these little gems is laughing all the way to the bank, and is probably lives on their own personal Croc Island somewhere with a Pina Colada in one hand and a member of the opposite sex on their lap. So many of these things are around that the inventor is probably among the few gillionaires in the world with their own island. He's next to the guy who invented the hoola- hoop and the one who came up with the Frisbee. Can you guess what they do on their islands? Why Hoola-hoop and Frisbee of course! A group of loyal minions and graveling yes men on Croc Island probably accompanies the Croc genius wherever he goes, and of course all of those folks in the entourage wear Crocs. At least they don’t make as much noise as the stooges of the gillionaire on Flip-Flop Island.

ODDS and ENDS!

Leftover from a recent bathroom column: What kind of sadistic monster put faucets in lavatories that have to be held in the on position in order to use them? It’s no wonder teenagers are germ ridden little snots. In some old high schools you will find that all of the soap dispensers are empty. Now, the reason can be revealed. Most likely this situation exists because of a tale in the media about there being too much alcohol in such bathroom soaps. Kids are extracting the alcohol. In serious cases it can be absorbed through the skin and seep into the blood. How does your high school son or daughter explain to officer Dick that they blew a .15 on the breathalyzer because cleanliness is next to godliness?

Aside from that hurdle and realizing that we are a nation of pampered wimps living in a world of new fangled seeing-eye urinals, soap dispensers and faucets, I found that these Stone Age version faucets require one to physically keep your hand turned on them in order to get any water to flow out. Let go and the water stops flowing. In this situation you can get only one hand wet at a time. Even if there were soap to dispense it would take a miracle to rinse your hands of it. Of course as a final pillar of anti-cleanliness is the usual the lack of paper towels in the dispenser too. They must install the empty dispensers in tandem. 50% off the cost without the insert supply; what a bargin. The girls all know about these pitfalls because they are instructed by their mothers from an early age to search for toilet paper in a stall's dispenser before they sit down! Boys don't have dad's advise because dad has no such wisdom. Boys learn bathroom etiquette from their friends. It often goes something like this. "Hey man lets see who can whiz the farthest!" Perhaps the bathroom mechanisms are driving the high school kids to convert the soap into a six pack in the first place.

Of our changing physique: Has anyone noticed the growing trend (and I mean that literally) of women’s backsides? I contend that the situation has risen because of steroids in the food chain. Someone wants to have a Mr. Universe contest starring cows. Growing super sized Holstein’s has a domino effect that is creating a world of lopsided children. My tiny little girl looks like she has a ham attached to her behind. I can’t think of any teenage girl with a figure that doesn’t have a can the size of two overstuffed water-balloons in the last stage of “one more move and there will be a tidal wave”. It’s disproportionably disturbing.

In my day growing up if you saw one girl in the 7th or 8th grade requiring a bra it was a celebratory occasion; rare and most appreciated. You always knew the boy who had just discovered the blossoming female because his pupils were always fixed and dilated, and you could use his tongue for a red carpet. Some young ladies today have hooters that rival their keesters. The question is which squishy area is going to get more attention from the video camera or the local pervert. I was apparently born in the wrong decade because I certainly would have liked to have more things to look at in school other than my teacher’s scolding looks and Sister Mary No-You Don’ts chalkboard erasers rocketing toward my head. Can you guess what I was looking at when she used to launch those volleys?

Where have we gone wrong? Is it the fast food generation or has my ophthalmologist given me a super sizing magnifying eye-glass prescription? I’m a big fan of Jell-O so not to worry; as a dirty old man I know I will enjoy things that wiggle more. I’m just not sure I want my daughter to be one of them.

Truth is stranger than fiction: Getting back educational setting, it seems that outside of Washington D.C. is Flintstone High School. Can you imagine being a graduate? Sitting in desks made of stone may be one thing, but waiting for birds to fly back and forth between classes so as to give the principals announcements on the intercom must be annoying. I’m sure the boys don’t wear shoes and the girls all have bones in their hair too. Not to be out done, another D.C. area school oddity is a military school that goes by the name Fork Union. I don’t know what this has to do with anything, but what are the odds that the alumni reunion doesn’t have this said as the graduates reminisce back on their days on campus? “Good ol’ Fork U” they probably say. It’s no wonder school kids don’t respect anything anymore. I wonder if they have a high sign to go with their school moniker. If so I’ll bet it’s a hand gesture! It might make for a rough four years at school games in the sports arena with cheerleaders shouting “Fork U” while opponents undoubtedly get riled. Then again maybe the odds are against the adversaries because of the cheerleader’s Buick-sized hips that have their rivals in a hypnotic state with their tongues on the floor.

IF THE SHOE FITS!

How do you fit twelve pounds of sausage into a bag fit for six? Any trip with your favorite lady to the store reveals the latest ridiculous trend in women’s shoes and coincidentally offers a comparative answer to the sausage question. Pointed shoes are all the rage lately. Not since the Spanish Inquisition have such devices been employed upon the human body.

Given that most women even with a curvaceous foot have significant width in their foot from heel to toe it is remarkable to note that they not only attempt, but also succeed in squeezing 5 toes in the tapering space fit for only a couple digits.

Of course if you’ve spent any time out with a lady in a pair of these torture devices you know you’re in for a night with the queen of mood, shooting looks at you as if you were the one turning the screws on her foot dilemma. Later, you’re assured to be servicing her with a foot massage worthy of Cleopatra. Add a bunch of grapes and hand held fans, and you could be in Egypt or some similar sort of bondage scene.

Like most men who have dreamt of that spare room becoming the den, you end up losing the space with the formation of the “shoe room”. You give it up quite easily when she threatens that either she gets proper space for her abundance of footgear or she wants another baby. Since men desire children slightly less than a trip to the proctologist for a classic turn your head and cough visit, she wins the day and your auspicious library becomes the Imelda Marcos Memorial Footwear Room.

How can a woman who only has two feet require so many thousands of shoes? Men generally can live with a pair of athletic shoes, a pair of boots, one set of dress shoes and a pair of sandals for those Jesus Complex moments. Women with so few footwear choices would wither, and be blown away in the faintest of winds.

“Shoes for every occasion”, means that she has as many pairs as Hallmark has greeting cards. If she needs that special pale blue spiked heel pump with the design on top resembling a yarmulka because she is participating in her nephews bar mitzvah, then she has to be prepared for it. The shoe room is the place you’ll find that special something.

So many pairs are there that she could open a shoe store of her own if she ever had the desire. Considering normal outlet peddlers, it is a good idea to stand aside when a group of ladies is set loose on the latest Candies that hit the market with the special introductory offer. The butchery between women in a race to beat one another to the limited supply is unspeakable. It might make interesting entertainment for some men, but such carnage should not be condoned even if it looks similar to naked mud wrestling down in the shoe pit.

Perhaps the truth of the matter is that women simply have so many shoes because they just don’t throw anything away. Over the years she’s collected shoes from the fact that she has to go shopping for a new pair for every birthday, wedding, and trash day that passes. So how come with a mountain of shoes occupying your potential solarium she still needs more? Men can’t figure it out. The more shoes she has probably means she is an older woman. Make no reference to such a thing unless you want to spend the next 6 weeks sleeping on the couch in between the punitive repercussions of having to polish all of those shoes to get back into her good graces. It’s hard to explain pink polish under your fingernails to the guys down art the rock quarry.

A wise fellow might dream of a game room with a pinball, soccer, and billiard tables, or Pacman to fill the void. Unfortunately, that pipedream has been replaced by a million soles that are stomping all over your dream. They’re taking up that space so her feet can be happy when a pair of oxfords is called for at the annual PTA meeting or karaoke night in front of the town drunks. “Hey as long as she’s happy”, the thought goes. Then perhaps I can convince her that we could put an addition on the house and get my game-room. You might get her to go along with the idea at last, but realize when she smiles at the prospect that she isn’t seeing late night billiards with a little bar in the corner and a drink in her hand. She’s actually calculating how many more racks of shoes will fit in the new space, and how many more years she has to fill it with the latest shoe fashions well into her geriatric years. When it finally hits you what she’s up to it’ll be too late. After your stroke you can be sure she’ll give you a proper burial like that of the family pet with a quick service in the backyard. Naturally she'll have the perfect shoes for the occasion. You of course will be laid to rest in a shoe box.