Day 2: Foot Gloves

They get you where you need to go, and how you need to go there. Here is my vast arsenal of podiatritarian (real word (not really)) tools. Each one of these shoesies have specific operational ranges:

-Sandals-

Also known semi-erotically as 'thongs' (I mean, c'mon), these rubber soles are not actually limited to al types of sand. In fact, sandals can range in use from beach excursions to grocery shopping to classy dinners. A true jack-of-all trades, sandals are A-okay in my book. Book of shoes, that is.

-Boots-

What the rest of the world refers to as cleats, I follow in the grand Australian tradition of naming things while inebriated. So, boots. These workhorses enable me to attempt to play Australian Football (no, not Rugby. Ruck Fugby). Their design, originally for soccer or futball, is perfect for smacking the hell out of an unsuspecting football, or crunching a wrongly placed hand. Traction is a plus as well - not suggested: cement -also not suggested: quick sand. Icing on the cake here is the bright red coloring, because as we all know, da red ones go fasta!

-Running Shoes-

These guys. These guys. These guys have given me life, blisters too, but mainly sweet, sweet life. Running shoes will get you anywhere you wanna go, and in a hurry too! Fat people rejoice! Your salvation is here! Plug your elephant stumps into these bad boys and feel the wind! Running shoes will transform the laziest slob who doesn't run into a slob who does run (a guy who chows down McDonalds and runs is still a guy who chows down McDonalds, seriously people). Now, unfortunately these particular grey geronimoes have reached the end of their lifespan. Decrepit and foamy support stuff-less, they are now a pathetic mockery of their former glory. Just shoes you say? No, no, titans. Titans of running. Titans of running speedily!!!

And to think the soles of these jokers were first concocted on a waffle iron...

-Vans-

I recently discovered that I only owned two pairs of athletic shoes and a pair of sandals. Thus, a trip to the mall with my style-informed 16 year old brother, which led to the purchase of "shoes" that, as graciously put by a friend, "reveal my inner 10 year old." Despite this, or perhaps in a strange way because of this, I love these goofy bastards. They make me feel like a skateboarder, without the hassle of actually learning to skateboard. Oddly enough, they also instill in me the urge to become a parkour champion and race up the sides of buildings and do triple flips over fire hydrants. I see great and terrible injury in my future.

-Dress Shoes-

Surprisingly, dresses are not to be worn with these shoes. Well, I suppose you could, but those are your identity issues to work out. Nope, these big brown sonsofbitches with their lopsided yet irremovable Dr. Scholls Comfort insoles are to be worn with nice clothes. Which I do not own. So in my mind they deserve a slow and uncomfortable demise. Which is why I leave them next to the dog bones.