After yesterday’s post regarding a co-worker Calvin’s highly stupid fucking shoe/percussion combo, it occurred to me that while he is the most recent individual to upset me, he is by far not the only one to assault my retinas along with my good taste. In fact, the more I thought about it — and later consulted my camera phone — I discovered a history of horrific repressed footwear photos. Step back, kids — you don’t want to get any venom and/or bile on you once I get going here…

This first pic is a bit blurry what with my patented fear of feet, so consider yourself lucky there is photographic evidence at all. The dogs shoved into these clogs gave me nightmares for weeks:

Count your blessings further that the pic where she slipped her foot out of the clog and enjoyed the cool floor against her1/4 inch cocoa brown callused sole didn’t turn out. I think the camera’s inner workings were unable to pixilate and process the sight of her toenails which looked like Ruffles Sour Cream and Onion Potato Chips.

Ever wonder what the well dressed man is wearing in my (red)neck of the woods? Wonder no more — it’s man skorts and ebony nylon knee highs with matching slip-ons…

I’d like to take a moment to address a very serious issue: wookiee poaching. Every year, millions of these lovable hirsute bipeds are slaughtered so that budding fashionistas can don their pelts and trod our streets in search of designer coffee and really cute handbags…

I’m not sure which is worse in this next pic, the fish belly white legs paired with the camo shorts or the black tenny-boppers and ankle highs standing in stark contrast to the translucent calves. You be the judge:

Then there’s Patrice. When I called her ass on this, her only response was “What?!?!? They’re comfy!” Patrice, a nation stands in judgement:

And finally, I give you the essence of the perfect marriage between stylish footwear and a cotton/poly blend wardrobe. Ladies and gentlemen — I give you…

(drumroll, please)

…are you ready?

…the one

…the only

…Melina!

When will someone realize that flip flops are only to be worn from the shower to the steamroom or by really hot guys between the ages of 18 and 27 wearing tight t-shirts and ragged jeans? Please note, Melina, that in neither case were the words “pregnant gals stopping in for a 1000 oz Diet Coke and a half tank of unleaded at the Circle K” uttered. Jesus — it’s not rocket science!

And with that, I bid you adieu. I need to get some work done or kiss someone on the cheek or something stoopid like that…