Sock Hell

     I was listening to the radio the other day, and I heard them doing one of those call-in contests. You had to name all the songs that had been played in the previous hour or something, and the prize was a pair of socks every day for a year. I thought about it for a minute, and realized that I'd be uncomfortable with a prize like that. It'd be good for a week or two, but then what? The worn ones would be washed, still practically brand new. I couldn't throw them out, but I'd have hundreds of fresh pairs waiting. What if they delivered the new pairs daily as part of the promotion? I don't think I could deal with it. After about a month, I'd be hiding from the delivery man, peeking through the curtains while he knocked on the door and laughed maniacally. It'd be like some personal hell in an old episode of the Twilight Zone. After a couple of months, I'd be a jabbering idiot, socks in every drawer, falling off closet shelves, and spilling out of the dryer. Crew socks, argyles, athletic and support socks. Boxes of them stacked up on the front step, unopened. I'd probably end up hanging myself with some over-the-calf

dress socks. And I'd be barefoot when I did it. Like Paul McCartney on the cover of Abbey Road. Dead man walking. The papers would report the tragedy, but by the next day it would be forgotten. Nobody would suspect the weeks and months of creeping insanity that brought it on.

Oh, I know what you're saying. "You selfish bugger. If you can't use them, give them away." Yes, but who wants used socks? "Hey man, they're clean, and I only wore them once." Thanks anyway, but I really don't want your used socks. Even new ones don't count as a gift. "Socks. How thoughtful of you." You don't want to be known as the sock giver. It ages you before your time. You'll be like the spinster aunt. "Don't count on anything from Uncle Terry. He always gives socks as presents."

Could you ever imagine that such a seemingly good prize would turn your life upside down, ruin your reputation, and threaten your mental stability? Consider what you're getting into before you call in and yell "The morning zoo rocks! Did I win?" Take your measly prize happily, and when the DJ says, "You can quit now, or answer one more question for a prize a day for life!", you'll know what to do. "No, Johnny, I'll take my Pearl Jam CD now, thank you. My life's worth more than that." He won't understand. But you will. Live long and prosper, my friend. And go barefoot sometimes. You'll feel better for it.

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