Shoeless Paul

I few weeks ago we went to a wedding.

I don't attend a lot of weddings. If people celebrated divorces, I would be very busy with that.

My first reaction to the wedding was, well, at least it's not a funeral.

My second reaction? Oh God, how do I break the news to the moths that I need my suit for an evening?

The moths that survived took it well.

I wished we lived in a world where one could wear very comfortable running shoes with a suit and tie. People look at me like I'm from another planet, or they think I have the reverse aging disease.

So off I went to look for my dress shoes. I opened our front hall closet thinking they must be in there. Shoes poured out of what seemed like a black hole belonging to Fendi.

Fifteen minutes later, when I regained consciousness, I called TeleHealth and got a woman on the line. She insisted she needed to know the make and model of the shoes before she could treat me properly. Were they pumps or flats? Stilettos are very bad for the eyes. Did you pay retail? I hung up and covered my cuts with brown shoe polish. Weird tan, Paul.

Screaming in pain, I also almost swallowed my tongue. Quick work with a shoe horn saved me.

Subsequent forensic analysis revealed there were 1200 pairs of shoes, 1100 belonging to my wife and 100 to my daughter.

No sign of my shoes.

Long and sad story short. My shoes were buried away in the basement, obviously in a place that would survive a nuclear blast so we could enjoy a nice dinner out after the fallout.

I asked my wife, like, seriously, why were my shoes buried in Hell?

"Oh dear, it's so obvious. There was no room in the closet."