NIKE NIGHTMARE

NIKE NIGHTMARE

 

Some doofus came into the shoe store in which I comfortably reside on a shelf. Up there, no one bothers me. I am quite content to lie in my box, covered with nice, crisp tissue and no laces tied to cause me tension.

Then as I said, some doofus came in looking for a size thirteen, triple E sneaker. Dammit, that is my identity! I hoped that it was another style of shoe, but it was not to be.

A clerk rudely pulled me off my shelf, abruptly tore off the lid of my snug little box, tore the tissue asunder and took my partner

(the left shoe) out of the box. I was safe for a while, at least.

The clerk laced the left shoe on the doofus. The weirdo got up, walked around a bit, checking the fit, and then looked at it in the mirror.

 

 

 

 

Apparently, he liked it and requested trying on the other shoe (me!)

Wouldn’t you know it, I fit perfectly! I was laced up (too tight for my money) and taken for another stroll, grossing me out.

It was very dark in there and the smell of his feet almost melted my soles. To add to my troubles, his feet sweated quite a lot. The rising smell of acrid perspiration almost knocked my laces off.

Then, thank goodness, my partner and I were unlaced and taken off his smelly feet. Free at last! I was sure I would be placed back in my box with my partner, rewrapped in tissue and put back on my old comfortable shelf to be left alone in contented isolation.

 

 

 

 

 

But, it was not to be! Mr. Smelly Doofus liked us. Buying us was no mean feat (no pun intended) – me and box-buddy were LeBron autographed models, selling for $550.00!

Next thing I know, we were placed in a very trendy bag and carried out of the store. It seemed like forever that we had to endure swinging back and forth as our new owner continued shopping. The undulations were getting me queasy and quite nauseous.

Finally, we arrived at his apartment. Wouldn’t you know it was a five-floor walk-up. I was jolted against the bannister so many times that I thought I’d lose my eyelets.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He took us out of the box and, thank goodness, changed into a new pair of sweat sox, smelling a bit like fabric softener. Alas, same thing: horrible odor, no room to breathe and laces way to tight.

 

Then, disaster! The jerk stepped in a

puddle of dirty rain water, soaking me and my left-footed buddy to the padding, and inner soles. He never tried to dry us; just placed us on the fire escape to let the sun do it.

After this he didn’t like the way we fit. He tried to return us, but the store, of course, refused.

 

 

 

 

 

So here I sit, interred in the back of a closet that stinks to high heaven, slowly growing mold on my soles.

I yearn for the day when I can exit this rancid cavern – maybe a garage sale or charity give-away – but to no avail. Here I sit with no hope.

Couldn’t someone please rescue me so I can be worn by a pair of nice-smelling feet, covered with clean, soft sweat sox? After all, these shoes are made for walking and that’s what they want to do. These shoes are made for walking over the guy that bought us in the first place.