Mr. Brooks' Magical Balloon Ride
Many opinionators such as myself spend a great deal of time wearing shoes. But what of the those who produce and distribute the shoes in which we citizens abide? Pretty much zilch. So I decided to rectify this shoe-neglect posthaste.
The first such establishment in my perambulation had a sign which read, "Lady Footlocker". Excellent, I thought to myself. I have found a place that sells shoes--thereby meeting my goal of finding a shoe-selling place. Introducing myself to the salesman, I asked, "How would you find a shoe for me?" He replied, "Well, I probably wouldn't, because we only sell womens' shoes here. Maybe your wife or daughter..." He drifted off and shrugged his shoulders. Stumped, I left, but felt confident that I would soon find another clue in my journey.
Eventually, after many vain hours of searching, I was very close to giving up, when suddenly on the yonder horizon I saw it: "Galleria Next Exit". Perhaps here my wanderlust could be sated. And indeed it was very soon before I was seated in a moderately comfortable chair and a not un-attractive saleswoman had my dainty left foot in her hands. "Now," said I to myself, "I shall learn much about shoes!" But then faster than you can say, 'whirling dervish with a switch blade,' she whipped out a strange device. It was metallic yet inscribed with markings and numerals. "What is this?" I cried out.
The saleswoman told me it was a measuring tool to "measure" my foot; she then instructed me to place my foot inside of it. Of course I suspected that she was going to collect my sock lint to use in a voodoo doll and then curse me, but I felt it was incumbent upon me as a journalist to proceed. Still it was more than simply the fear of bad juju that made me uncomfortable. I did not care for this notion of 'measurement'. It was not long for me to discover why.
After completing this process of foot 'measurement', she disappeared into the stockroom. I sat helplessly, waiting in dread. Seconds felt like hours. Time was extended, stretched out. This must be, I thought to myself, what Purgatory is like. I was certain that I die in that chair, waiting endlessly, like Sisyphus, a ghost cursed to all eternity to attempt a futile gesture.
Then the salesgirl came back.
She had several pairs of sensible wingtips--but something was wrong! (In other words, my intuition was right. Just so you get that point, I'll probably mention it again but don't forget.) Yes, something was terribly wrong! None of the shoes fit! In other words, this process of 'measurement' had utterly failed. One pair was a bit cramped; another, a bit too large; some shoes fit one foot but not the other. The saleswoman attempted to evade responsibility, claiming that my feet were, in her words, "freakishly abnormal monstrosities." But you and I reader see the real problem: Measuring the thing is not the same as the thing itself. And this is exactly what is so horribly wrong with our nation today.
We need to look at the thing itself but the Asian-Jewish-Meritocratic-Elites (JAME) have taught us to 'measure' things. Well guess what, elitists? My feet are not deformed freaks which are in need of corrective surgery! They are beautiful creations of my 100% genuine Real American freedom-loving DNA! (And that garbage truck that backed up over one when I was six.) And so, elitists, you can keep your inches, your centimeters, your pounds per square inch and your fathoms and leagues! We, the Real Americans, insist that you see the real thing--not a convenient abstraction!
Thank you and good night.