I think I can do anything in these boots. I bought them in a small shack from a woman dressed as a clown. Well, maybe she was actually a clown. It’s a little difficult to make the distinction. Don’t hurt your brain-muscle too much thinking about that one. The point is that she looked like a clown, and this clown was not too pushy either, which is surprising. Usually clowns are always asking to hold on to this handkerchief or gently tug on that finger, but not this one. Anyway, there was a variety of items for sale at this particular clown shack. There were levitation sweaters. There were Kimodo (dragon) skinned Kimonos. There were Monica Lewinksy dolls, which, upon closer inspection were actually nutcrackers. Upon even closer inspection, they seemed to work by sucking on rather than applying vertical pressure to the nut. There were all sorts of weird knickknacks: super-deluxe four-dimensional pencils, automatic key chains, and phallically shaped pez dispensers. It was a veritable museum of the strangely desirable.
And then there were the boots. They spoke to me. And by spoke to me, I mean they said, “We want you, inside of us, simultaneously. Right now. Badly.” Who am I to deny such a request? I payed my 12 duckets to the smiling clown lady (at least I thought she was smiling), and left the store.
I think I can do anything in these boots. Allow me describe them to you. They are classy, while being rather kitschy. They are sexy, and understated. They are made of suede from the toe skin of the now extinct blue arctic camel. In fact, the entire species of blue arctic camels, a herd of about 2500 animals, was wiped out to make these boots. They have both speed lines running along their sides and speed holes in the front. They are fast.
I think I can do anything in these boots. I think I can swallow the entire world’s supply of arsenic and survive, which I imagine would make a lot of rats very happy. I think I can run a triple marathon while smoking a carton of cigarettes. That is, I think I can smoke the actual carton, by lighting the “o” on the Marlboro box and inhaling. I think I can tap my heels together, repeat the words there’s no place like home three times, and instantly find myself in bed with a naked Judy Garland. I think I can make a football arena full of a Oakland Raiders fans sing, in a perfect chorus of hauntingly beautiful voices, Sarah McLachlan’s Adia while holding on to each other like drunken Russian sailors.
I think I can do anything in these boots. I think I can win the FIFA World Cup. Singlehandedly. While playing Yahtzee with your grandmother. I think I can convince all of the first class passengers on a flight, trust fund kids on their way to summer in the Hamptons, to massage the gritty, sweaty, bare feet of all of the economy class passengers, drunken Irish coal miners. I think I can beat World of Warcraft. In 2 days, while maintaining my current level of personal hygiene.
I think I can do anything in these boots. I think I can save the dragon, slay the princess, and mount her head on the wall in my den. I think I can have a den, and actually refer to it as such, without seeming like an arrogant bastard. I think I can win the Indy 500 in a 1993 Chevrolet Cavalier while my mother backseat drives in the passenger seat (“Watch out there’s a left coming up! Watch out there’s a left coming up!”). I think I can convince the entire world’s Jewish population that Yasser Arafat was actually a pretty good guy. Over bacon and lobster.
I think I can do anything in these boots. I hope I can do anything in these boots. I wish I could do anything in these boots. I wish I could make you like me. Have you seen my boots?