Oh my unattractive non-slip faux-leather work footwear,
I am sorely perturbed at your repulsive appearance. I cannot completely blame you, as you were designed for comfort, and not for looks. Oh that you were as comfortable as your ugliness deems you should be! Alas, it seems that the $24 I paid for thee was an utter waste of cash. Now, I am forced to vest my feet in your disgustingly smelly depths every time I venture to work. My peers say it shall be my 6″ alligator heels that are the death of my feet, but nay! I am convinced it shall be ye.
The grippers on the bottom of you not only keep me from slipping and hitting my skullage on the pizza oven at work- they are extremely adept at picking up an stray pepperoni, cheese, and other perishable pizza toppings that have made their way onto the floor. The treads of you are so full of mashed pork and beef toppings that just the thought of it makes my stomach churn. Woe is me, but there is no way to unsully the soles of my work shoes!
Sadly, you were not there to appropriately support my perfectly-arched feet yesterday when I needed you most. Nine hours I was scheduled; while my feet screamed at me for mercy from your death hold after only five hours, I further tortured them by having to stay at work for another seven hours after I was scheduled. In return, my feet have decided to retaliate by refusing to fit into my gorgeous satin leopard-print booties. No amount of soakng or rubbing will deter them from dispersing their retribution.
I’ve considered replacing you, my Payless shoes, with a higher end brand of work boot, such as Doc Martens. Unfortuneately, I cannot justify spending $100 on a pair of shoes that will, in less than a month, reek of pizza grease and tomato sauce. And so, my homely companions, I pray that you will be kind to my feet just long enough for me to become insanely famous and rich from my blog.
Dear Dude from the band Anthrax,
I regret to inform you that you are not as famous as I’m sure you would like to be. I decided to compose this letter after having seen you on a Youtube video where you were once again sitting namelessly amongst a crowd of better-known celebrities. I apologize for my insensitivity in this matter, but your existance is really beginning to piss me off.
I must ask you one thing- what the fuck is your name? After having spotted you on numerous star-studded syndicated shows such as I Love the 80’s and the Zakk Wylde Celebrity Roast, I am disturbed to realize that I still cannot tell one person your name. Am I that completely un-observant, or do the producers of these shows triple-size the “from ‘Anthrax'” that is printed under your name in order to further push you into obscurity? Is you name so common- like Bob, or Joe- that it just glides through my brain and gets lost in the kerfuffle? I certainly wouldn’t doubt it.
I would like to point out another distressing fact- I cannot introduce you, Anthrax Dude, neither am I able to name even one song from your band. In my world, I am surrounded by music connisseurs who possess infinite musical trivia knowledge, yet not one of these Rain Man-ish people listen to Anthrax, as far as I know. Is your music so awfully hideous that it defies attention? I am afraid to find out.
Anthrax Dude, as I am unable to comment on the quality (or lack thereof) of your musical talent, I shall therefore have to comment on the things I know about you. I would love to shave or otherwise trim the horrendous beardism that is attatched to your chin. While goatees seem to be increasing popular, the only thing your frazzled whiskers seem to be doing is keeping you from getting you own Hollywood star on a sidewalk in California. While your choice in chin accessory is questionable, the fact that your head is shaven is commendable, since you sport a very nicely-shaped skull.
I realize my curiousity over your name and your band’s musical leanings could be easily enough put to rest; however, I believe that since I have not yet retained your agnomen, it is safe to presume that I am not meant to. And so, Anthrax Dude, you shall forever in my world remain that nameless dude from that musicless band who makes his living along with the other washed-up celebrities on those VH1 history shows.
Forever a Non-Fan,