I went shopping for socks. It’s not the most romantic use of my time I know, but I needed some socks, so I thought the best way to procure some socks would be to go to an establishment that traded socks in exchange for monetary recompense. The way I saw it, my feet were cold, and the best way to combat this decline in pedal temperature, would be to own some kind of tight fitting cotton sheath, shaped like my foot. After some research, I discovered that such things did exist. These things are called socks.
Now, this posed me a dilemma that I could not readily rectify. My feet were cold, it was cold outside, going outside would make my feet more cold, but to stop my feet being cold I had to go out into the cold with my cold feet. If only I had some socks.
In desperation, I turned out my drawers in search of socks, and to my chagrin, all I could find was a matching pair of tubular shaped blue cotton material with a kind of dog leg in them. At one end of these odd floppy devices was an elasticated band, at the other end, they were sealed into what can only be described as a toe-like finale.
These are not my legs
This being the best I could do, I began wrapping these things around and round my cold feet, and to my surprise, their coiled cotton contours did provide me with some kind of warm respite. The only trouble now was, I couldn’t actually get my feet into my shoes.
Thus I faced a second dilemma that I could not readily rectify. My feet were warm, but the ground outside would hurt my warm feet without some kind of rubber soled protection. If only I had bigger shoes.
But in order to get bigger shoes, I would have to go outside. And in order to go outside, I would need to remove the warm material protecting my cold feet from the cold outside. It seemed to me that what I needed was a more snug fitting cotton coating, contoured to the shape of my feet. If only I had some socks.
I made a rash decision. I tore the blue coiled material from my now warm feet, and pushed my naked podiatry into the confines of my normal sized shoes. That’s when I realised the foolhardiness of this action. The edge of my normal sized shoes was chaffing my ankle. What I needed was some kind of soft cushioned protection tightly bound to the shape of my ankle to prevent said ankle from being rubbed raw. If only I had some socks.
These are my legs
A moment of inspiration hit me hard in the teeth. I took the strange blue material I had rescued from my drawers, and jammed them down the side of my shoes, thus providing some padding against the skin incendiary chaffing. This did have the effect of rendering the shoes a little too tight to make walking comfortable. If only I had bigger shoes.
I stepped out into the cold and could feel the chill freezing my under-protected toes. An extra layer around my feet at this moment would have been enough to thwart this frosting. If only I had some socks.
I found myself wandering aimlessly through the commercial district of my town, thinking forlornly if I would ever find what I needed. And suddenly, there it was.
The … Sock … Shop.
Elated and breathless I staggered awkwardly across the threshold of the boutique, my senses bombarded with hundreds upon hundred of what can only be described … as socks.
Aimlessly grabbing armfuls of the bounteous booty, I lunged at the counter and tendered my purchase. It seemed an eternity as the bored cashier rang them through the scanner, each beep a mocking reminder of my sock free feet. Finally, she looked up and informed me of the cost. If only I had some money.
I’d left all my cash back home, tucked inside a sock.
* * *
What you’ve just wasted your time reading is a good example of how NOT to write stand up material. It’s overly verbose, not worth the journey, lacking in the funnies and almost impossible to memorise.
What’s ridiculous is that I did write it as a piece of stand up, and even attempted to perform it once. But in the telling of it, almost all of it got cut out live on stage, which left the bare bones and a sort of essence of it. I wrote it as a dare, after Iszi challenged me to write a bit about “Blue Socks”; an aribtrary phrase she pulled out of her bottom. When she read it, she correctly stated it was a plethoric mound of dirge, which is why I went on stage and did it. I’m an idiot.
The final joke got a big laugh though, so I somehow win.
