I’ll bet you thought I forgot all about it, or that I’d let it pass without comment. Well, you’re wrong, dammit.
I’m talking about Socktoberfest, of course. This weekend it’s all about the socks. Well, okay, it’s also about the beer, and the buxom wenches, and the non-stop partying, but it’s mostly about the socks. To celebrate socks and Socktoberfest tomorrow, I plan to party like they’re on sale for $19.99.
It’s not that I’m a sock fetishist or anything. (Some people are, apparently.) In fact, mostly I don’t think about socks at all, unless one of mine gets a hole in it, or I need something to stuff into a partner’s mouth during Loud Sex. That’s why Socktoberfest is such a big deal to me: it’s the one weekend a year when I can pay homage to my little cotton friends and not feel too weird about it. And when I pay homage, believe me, homage will be paid and then some.
This year, to celebrate Socktoberfest, I considered going to a sock museum. There is quite a reputable one in
I think the
“The 1970s renewal of Nero was fraught with poor ideas - an unpopular sock museum, a downtown hotel with a leaky roof and a parking garage prone to flooding.”
I guess the Nero museum must have housed a substandard collection of socks; that’s the only reason I can think of for it being unpopular. They should have hired the curator away from the museum in
It’s no use crying over spilt milk, I suppose. (I can, however, cry in frustration over my word processor continually changing ‘spilt milk’ to ‘split milk’.) I guess I’ll just have to drown my shame in beer this weekend. At least I won’t be partying alone. It’s the biggest weekend of the year for my sock puppets, so it’ll be zany times at the Hulles household for sure. Woo hoo!