Remember those boots I had? They were great. I could do anything in them. But their lives were short, not unlike a shooting star streaking across the sky for one brief, wonderous moment. Or a child star streaking across the red carpet in a drug-induced teenage moment of attention-driven rebelliousness and / or perversion. Or a house fly, which only lives for 15 to 30 days, eating shit and procreating at an exciting pace.
At any rate, those boots are gone. They helped me accomplish all of the wonderful things I had previously outlined, and promptly committed suicide by seppuku — synchronized knives thrust through their soles. I laid them to rest with a nondescript black flag draped over them in a local boot-cemetary that doubles as a hobo’s bargain basement. “Taps” played in the background, emanating from nowhere in particular. It was a solemn and dramatic moment. I cried.
But I have new boots now. They are magical. They will last forever. They are American-made, like all great things (see: Paul Newman, chia pets, and economic inequality). Their leather is soft and thick and brown, like the skin of a newborn Malaysian girl. Like the Malaysian girl, they will grow tougher and more beautiful with age, reaching complete indestructibility and incomprehensible beauty at the age of seven. I hope only that I am worthy of donning them.
There is a plot line in many movies and TV shows whereby a protagonist is given the gift of a pair of shoes that endow upon them magical qualities. The character, usually a small down-trodden child — a soot-smeared orphan, if at all possible — goes on to win dance competitions, orate eloquently at debates, run faster than is humanly possible. In the end, it is always revealed that the boots were merely placebos! All the child needed to do was believe in themselves, for the boots never actually helped them. It was them all along! Well, let me dispel that notion with regards to my new boots. It is the boots. I act only as the boots’ trustee. They act of their own accord and in magnificent fashion.
Speaking of fashion, these boots can make the most garish of outfits seem like the newest trend from Milan (that’s where fashion comes from, right? New York? Sheboygan?). I could don a sewage-coloured muumuu, a pair of pink heart-shaped glasses and a pea soup green vinyl belt with a penis-shaped rusted belt buckle, and I would be a trend-setting maverick as long as my new boots adorned my feet. It is generally a bald-faced lie that shoes make the man, but these boots in particular could make Elijah Wood look like a tough, masculine, post-apocalyptic, chain-swinging, hog-riding, mohawk-topped badass. Too bad the boots are mine. Suck my balls Elijah. You are forever relegated to the femininity engendered by your weak cheekbones and baby blue eyes that are always on the verge of sputtering with tears. Deal with it.
These boots could kick anything through. When I’m wearing them (I always wear them), I kick things with impunity. Bank vaults, shot puts, pregnant women — nothing is safe from the kicks of my new kicks. I could stamp out World Hunger with a swift stomp of my new boots. A single thunderous smack of the ground with my dense rubber heel would shake the Earth so completely that minerals would churn up from subterranean layers, soil across the planet would turn to the purest form of mulch. Sheep, cows, and other beasts of burden would shit themselves, further feeding the surface, leaving it lush and nutrient-rich. Trees everywhere would jolt up out of the ground, their roots spreading and grasping at the ground lest they lose their grip. Of course I wouldn’t do this. But I could.
Verily, these boots don’t abide by the laws of physics. They can, and often do, travel faster than the speed of light, which enables them to go back in time and smack Einstein right in his mustache before darting off to kill Hitler and bang Eva Braun with extreme prejudice (no pun). Not only can my new boots travel faster than the speed of light, but they can make light itself travel slower. In fact, photons, shot out of the sun and other stars, reach my new boots and, attracted by their radiant brilliance, set up shop for a few hours and have a picnic on my boots’ smooth leather surface, munching on quarks and the occasional Higgs Boson. They invite their friends over and do tequila shots until I shake them and they shoot off in all directions. It’s quite a thing to behold.
When I’m wearing these boots, not unlike my old boots (God rest their soles), I think I can do anything. I think I can beat Joey Chestnut at a hotdog eating competition simply by ingesting his diminutive Japanese adversary, Takeru Kobayashi, and a couple of extra Polish sausages for good measure with, of course, a kegerator full of thick, stout beer. I think I can have a heated argument with a black person about slavery without sounding like a complete racist. I think I can stealthily replace America’s supply of gold bullion at Fort Knox with gelt, giving out the real gold at Hannukah to small Jewish children, who will try to eat it with their tender baby teeth, much (munch) to my amusement.
I think I can do anything in these boots. I think I can read Moby Dick without being bored by the excessively encyclopedic chapters on fish and sea mammals. I think I can convince Guenevere that King Arthur was actually kind of a pansy and that truly heroic knights can only be found at Medieval Times Dinner & Tournament. I think I can make her burn with jealousy for an eight year-old child arbitrarily chosen to be the princess at one such dinner. I think I can change the global meaning of the term “twerk” to mean “work twice as hard”. I think I can probably twerk myself. Though I wouldn’t do that. I never have to work again.
… now that I have these new boots.