When I first set about creating a Speed Racer costume, all I had for it were white pants. Then I finally caved in and bought the helmet off Amazon about a week ago. Well, two weeks ago. It arrived a week ago. That was a fun school day. Probably my biggest difficulty was trying to find red socks. Man oh man. Seriously, nobody had red socks for sale. It was like some kind if conspiracy.
In fact, it was a conspiracy. Those blasted shop owners heard tell of a man - a man who intended to dress up as the amazingly-awesome Speed Racer. And they were afraid. Naturally. For they knew their own costumes would then pale in comparison to the splendor and majesty that would be this Speed Racer costume. Yes, they were afraid to be overshadowed by the likes of a man - a man who intended to dress up as the amazingly-awesome Speed Racer. And they were afraid. Naturally.
And so, they came up with a plan. It was a dastardly, diabolical plan. They would take all of their red socks. They would remove all of those innocent, red socks who desperately desired to be bought and worn by countless children (and one college student) who would forever cherish and delight in wearing the fuzzy things. They would take these socks and dump them into a giant vat of bleach.
And thus would these exciting stockings be reduced to dull, commonplace, white socks with no vigor for life. The lucky ones would retain a shade or two of gray, and perhaps a word that proclaimed their captors' names: Hanes, Wilson, and American Eagle.
Thus were the red socks taken. And thus was the man's quest in vain. Far and wide did he search, but to no avail. Alas, he was too late.
But then, a ray of hope! A thin thread of non-conformity wound its way to the man by means of a dear acquaintance. Maybe, just maybe, a stronghold of rebelliousness known as a skate shop might have a pair of red socks. The ray expanded, brightening the depressing darkness of perhaps having to resort to re-dying a pair of socks. This would surely be a most tedious process, and the man dearly hoped such a last would have no need of being resorted to.
And so was a journey to a skate shop made. And then - bitter disappointment! Although mighty was the effort with which they fought, the skate shop was unable to stop the heinous sock-bleaching crew. Some socks managed to escape capture, but not without injury. Their once glorious, unadulterated cotton bodies were no longer the pure red of legend. Although patches of red still remained, the socks had been transformed into something different. Now, they were composed of a variety of different colors.
The man knew this just would not do. To achieve the level of authenticity to make his costume a resounding success, he knew he needed a pair of socks that was nothing but solid crimson. Tears were shed that day.
And yet, the ray of hope, though diminished, remained. Those at the skate shop spoke of a fabled sanctuary of socks. It was a place where socks could live without fear of segregation or bleachings. This place was known as the Chalet of Sports.
The man slapped his forehead in consternation. Of course! He knew the Chalet was no child's bedtime tale. For he had been there - or places akin to it - many times in his younger days; in the days when he participated in the noble sport of Baseball.
And so, he left behind the ravished skate shop and journeyed onwards towards the Chalet of Sports. The way was arduous, and the march was long, but because of the faithfulness of his companion, the man made it unscathed.
The crucial question was asked, and the answer was given. Yes, they still had red socks. A great shout arose, and the tyrannical shopkeepers quaked in fear. For they knew that their plan had been foiled.
Thusly did the man complete his search. He was united with a pair of socks, boldly vivid in their coloration. While the shopkeepers yet reeled from the defeat, the man swiftly went out the very next day to collect the rest of his costume. And he did travel to the nearby Target. There, he purchased a white polo to wear beneath a blue t-shirt. And so also were yellow gloves obtained. And thus was a red shirt bought to be sacrificed into a scarf for the man's neck.
All throughout the land did the people raise a cry of triumph. And they did grow in courage, resolving to never let atrocities such as the Red Sock Massacre ever happen again. Greatly emboldened were they by the success of the man who dared to defy the Shop Keepers, and many were the praises ever more sung in his honor.
*ahem*
We also carved pumpkins last night at our college group. That was fun. Afterwards, though, we weren't really sure what to do with them. Perhaps dispose of them into the garbage? Maybe smash them on the street? Offer them to random strangers? It was a quandrary.
And then, all of today, as I went about my business, I couldn't help but smile at the sight of a carved pumpkin nestled comfortably on the top of a campus lamppost. As it surveyed those oblivious college students that walked about mere feet below it, it gave a regal nod to those who were acute enough to notice.
It's been there for at least a full day now, and I can't help but wonder who did it. After all, I clearly didn't do it, and anyone who believes otherwise is obviously delusional. Sure, it bears some resemblance to the pumpkin that I carved (which mysteriously disappeared), but it couldn't possibly have been me. After all, if I had done it, that would have meant I shimmied up the lamp pole, and then had someone hand the pumpkin to me.
Pff, as if.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment