20 February 2006

“What’s that smell?

I ignore the question as I am a man and really do not care. It could be sewer work, animal related, some bad cheese that I have carelessly stored behind the icebox, or indeed, me.

“It’s revolting!” She adds. Again, I ignore.

Watch and see how little I care. Observe me in the state of blissful ambivalence. I am man, uncaring and unbound.

Besides, I am congested, on some wonnerful prescription drugs and engrossed in my latest project.

I am filming my remake of “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” as performed by rabbits. In my version there is only one brother and I have fed him a strict diet of amphetamines and Viagra.

Despite what the protesting PETA activists claim, he seems quite happy.

“It’s your tennis shoes!” She waves them back and forth like an incense censer.

Did Bucky Fellini ever have to put up with such interruptions? Was Hitchcock ever accosted with ripe sneakers?

“Bung ‘em into the washer, then.” As you can see, I’m no ordinary PhD, but a true problem solver. I return to my directorial duties. This buck is not a natural actor, like Sir Laurence Olivier, Sir Alec Guinness or Ron Jeremy, but rather a method actor.

Despite his shortcomings, he’s really getting into the role. I smell an Oscar.

Upon further reflection, I smell the shoes that have been thrust under my nose.

“Wash them? Honestly, Evil, they’re falling apart. Go get some new ones!”

And that’s the crux of the problem. I’d like to buy some normal, white tennis shoes. Now they come in any colour but white. I do not wish to look like I graduated from Clown College as this would limit my chances of taking over the world. Who would fear a dictator in lime green shoes? (Other than Richard Simmons.)

Secondly, I wear a size 11E (14 in the UK and 76 in terms of the Godless, metric Euro-hippy sandal sizes). When I ask for such a size, I am given some sort of high tech plastic thingy that is as long as my foot but a third of the width. This is decidedly uncomfortable, and if I am forced to wear these things I shall hunt down the designers and kick them in the rump. Considering how narrow the damned things are, the designers would end up sitting on my knee.

Listen, Nike, your shoes already cost more than the GDP of Iceland. Could you not splurge and add the 3 pennies worth of Nylon that would make your shoes actually wearable by human beings? Or must you deprive the world of my gift to independent cinema just because you are greedy, heartless, foot-crushing swine?

Ps, Nike, if you would find it in your hearts to make a wearable shoe, I would, in gratitude, send you a cute, fluffy bunny, or twenty, as a gift. It seems that I currently have some spares.



UPDATE!! El Barbudo points out: 'there's a great fucking line from British comedian Jeremy Hardy that goes something like; "My daughter asked me for a pair of Nike trainers the other day. I told her 'You're eleven - you're old enough to make them yourself!'" '
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And that's the way I likes it.