Sock It To Me

By: Jeff Lagasse

In the last column I wrote, I backed myself into a corner. When writing articles for the venerable newspaper you see before you, I usually come up with my ideas about five minutes before I write them, staring at the computer screen until words come out of me (and no, not like the little creature in "Alien"). In my last column, however, I committed myself to writing about socks. I didn't think much of it at the time. Besides, when the next issue is a month away, it's easy to forget about article obligations. The other day, though, I found myself in something of-- forgive the ancient slang-- a pickle. Somehow I had to write about socks in a comprehensible way. Well, I had to write about socks. I won't pretend that all my articles this year have been comprehensible.

Then, an idea struck me. Socks probably tell a lot about a person. If you see someone wearing bright red socks, or yellow and purple polka-dot socks, those quaint little items of footwear probably are a reflection of the personality of its wearer. I decided (against my better judgment) to break into different peoples' sock drawers to find out just what kind of patterns they've been wearing on their feet. Hidden by shoes and long pants, these socks have been kept secret... until now. (Insert maniacal laughter here.) I warn you, this article is not suitable for children as some of this information could be unsettling and downright disturbing. Running into me can be pretty disturbing, too, so keep that in mind.

First, a little history on socks. While most people think that socks originated in eleventh century Spain, a fact which I made up just now, socks actually date back to 65,000,000 B.C., when a cave man named Ug stepped into some swamp slime which then hardened into a foot cast. Ug kept wearing this primitive sock so he wouldn't stub his toe on the cobblestone in his driveway.

Okay, enough history. Now onto who's wearing what... and exactly what it means.

The first sock drawer I broke into was in the bedroom of Vice President Al Gore. While the pattern on the socks was a dull, monotonous brown, inside each sock was a tack placed where his big toe usually goes. Apparently, he can step on the tack anytime he is required to change facial expression. If he feels he should look passionately angry about something, he can merely drive his big toe down onto his tack and-- voila!-- he looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger about to gun down some time-traveling robot. Vice President Gore actually walked into the room and caught me in the act, but true to form, he merely stared at me blankly and told me not to use "soft money."

While my political interest was piqued, I checked on Dan Quayle's socks just for chucks and giggles. Unfortunately, they were completely blank.

The next sock drawer I checked belonged to Richard Simmons, and he had two different types of socks. One set had smiley faces drawn all over them, and there was something curious about them: they all had really curly afros, and they all were hooked up to expresso machines with I.V. needles. Perhaps this explains his hyperactivity and his time-warp hair from the seventies, left over from a New York disco club. The other set might reveal some repressed psychological yearning for food: they were made completely of German chocolate. Aich.

Due to the deadline pressure so many of us experience here at the Blaze, I was only able to check one more sock drawer. I decided to make this one pertinent to LHS: I broke into Mr. Syke's bureau to see what secrets he had stashed. What I found astonished me. Sewn on each sock was a picture of a walkie-talkie. Even more fascinating was that they were electronic; when the walkie-talkies were squeezed, they would emit a sound, much like a fat man's butt at a barbecue. Each one said: "Yo yo homie, you be messin' with Sykes, you be messin' with da MAN!" The grammar use was astoundingly atrocious.

There you have it. Sock wearing exposed. To help you better appreciate the undercover work I put into this article, I'll have you know that I spent several MINUTES thinking of this stuff, so I if I get the Pulitzer with this one, don't be surprised. Remember, next time you're at someone's house, check their sock drawer to see what kind of skeletons they have in their closet. But prepare yourself for the worst.

Oh, what do I wear for socks? Ug's original foot cast, of course.