I want to ask you about your boots. What happened to you that you value boots so little? What if I told you that, when you were a baby, we called you "Boots"? & that, at your work, your co-workers say, when you're coming toward them, "Here comes Mr Boots!" Is that why you don't take care of your boots?
Boots may seem bulky & inconsiderate, but sometimes to protect your ankles & allow you to stay out of shin-deep muck & water, you have to sacrifice the breathing space of the skin beneath your ankles. Your grandfather knew that. Your grandmother knew your grandfather knew that. We don't know what went wrong with you.
Really? Boots have a bad reputation among the literati? Who are the literati anyway? Not you, surely. You got a poem published once in the back of Maxim. & it was a dirty poem besides. You rhymed "wussy" with "pussy." Ooo, move over Wallace Stevens. Don't you know self-importance looks cooler in boots?
What, me? No, I don't own any boots. But I am not talking about me. I'm talking about you. Your antipathy toward boots boggles the mind. I sentence you to three years as a shoe salesman! Now get out of my court! Bailiff! Boot him out of here! Ha ha, get it? My bailiff has boots! & he's giving you the boot! On your booty!
I stole that joke from Clarence Thomas. Now, what else is on the docket! This fellow? Sir! What happened to your boots? Oh, it's going to be a long night.
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