- …..and so, sadly—right before my disbelieving eyes—I was forced to watch his feet, which until then had been sheathed in glimmering gold plate, mutate into a dull, repulsive clay. That’s right, my role model/hero’s feet turned into goddamned stinkin’ molds of clay right before my fuckin’ eyes as I stood there—mouth agape—closely observing the proceedings with a combination of horror and sadness and utter disbelief. This person who I had worshipped and sought to emulate all those years when I was growing up as a highly impressionable lad now stood before me as a pitiful figure who I would no sooner wish to imitate at this latter stage of my life than any of history’s other cunning, tragic luminaries who chose to lie and deceive and mislead throngs of people without so much as batting an eyelash. That day was sad, I tell you, one of the most heartbreaking I have ever been forced to endure in my not-short life, but unlike some of the others which showcased similar forlornness, there wasn’t a single damn thing I could do to mitigate the horrific situation both he and I were facing during that transcendent instant. But for the first time ever, I—yes, me, Fred Blahnik, until that point in time the serial follower, the ever-obedient disciple, the obsequious sheep to his vigilant shepherd—was the individual responsible for making a split-second decision that would either save the two of us or doom us to a grotesque fate; his judgment—yes, this fakey, fraudulent usurper’s judgment—no longer mattered a bear’s shit in the woods to me…..
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Fred's Soapbox 