Old Fossil received a Nike shoe catalog in the mail one day purely by accident. But—not having anything better to do with his time in yet another long, dreary day—he decided to peruse the publication. And as he paged through the catalog which showcased state-of-the-art athletic footwear, he suddenly stopped when he got to one page and his gaze froze on one particular pair of sneakers. His wife—who was sitting right next to him on the living room sofa watching her favorite soap opera—noticed this and smiled. “Wilbur…..I see that you’re looking through the shoe catalog that came in the mail today. Did you find something in there that you really like?” Old Fossil shook his head in the affirmative. “Yes, Mildred, I did. I surely did indeed!! This pair of shoes right here….these here Air Jordans”—and he stopped talking at this juncture to jab an index finger at the opened catalog page—“are just about the greatest thing I’ve seen since Herbert Hoover was president and Prohibition ended!” His wife smiled more broadly. “Then why don’t you buy them, Wilbur?! You hardly ever purchase anything, least of all for yourself!” Old Fossil scrunched up his face like he had just swallowed a big gulp of castor oil. “I would, Mildred, I would…..but, y’know, there’s one thing about this pair of shoes that I really don’t like, and it’s a big, BIIIIIG drawback, let me tell you!” Mildred glanced down at the pair of shoes once again, and her jaw plummeted then when she noticed the price associated with the pair of shoes her husband had fallen in love with. “Oh my God, Wilbur, I see what you mean! They’re asking three hundred dollars for your favorite pair of shoes. What…..are those things made out of gold and platinum and accented with pink diamonds?! I agree with you, Wilbur, that’s a totally ridiculous price to ask for just one pair of sneakers!!” Old Fossil just smiled and shook his head, but this time in the negative. “Actually, the price doesn’t bother me one bit, Mildred. You know that I have nearly a million dollars stashed away in savings accounts in various financial institutions, so this pair of shoes would merely be a drop in the bucket compared to that sum of money. No, there’s one giant flaw ruining this pair of otherwise knock-‘em-dead sneakers, and it doesn’t have a damned thing to do with the price they’re asking either!” Mildred had grown a tad annoyed by this point in time at her husband’s smug reticence, and thus responded with an unmistakable tone of sarcasm in her voice. “Well, tell me then, Wilbur: What exactly is this ‘giant flaw’ you’ve identified with your gold-plated, three-hundred-dollar pair of sneakers that are fit for a king??” Old Fossil was swift in retorting. “That’s easy, Mildred. The damned things have old-fashioned shoelaces to tie instead of Velcro straps!!”
Fred's Soapbox 