In Contempt of: Sandals

In Contempt of: A column that celebrates all the things I can’t stand.

SANDALS

I can’t stand sandals. On men. I also can’t stand chastity belts, or hair shirts, or burkas, or Amish dress. I’m not particularly fond of bathrobes, or dashikis, or ten gallon cowboy hats, either. But of all life’s fashions and styles, objects and accessories, I hate sandals the most. On men.

Birkenstocks are especially loathsome, since I can’t stand hippies (news flash folks- we’re not going back to the Garden of Eden anytime soon!), but I generally detest all styles of men’s sandals from the Caesar sandal, to Italian style bedroom slipper sandals, to Colorado outdoors-man sandals. I just can’t stand sandals. They shouldn’t be worn. Ever. By men.  Not in a world where any number of closed toed shoes offer protection, stability and, dare I say it, stylish ease.

To wear sandals in December, even if it is 70 degrees in Los Angeles, goes beyond a simple digression from the standards of cleanliness and decent conduct, into the realm of deep moral failing and perhaps even sin. To wear sandals, as you the man standing beside me in line at Paquito Mas are, waiting for your chicken enchiladas and side order of guacamole, displaying your feet that resemble nothing so much as two small boiled hams, dotted here and there with leather-worn sores, ringed at the heels with athlete’s foot like the sour rind of a rotten cheddar cheese, with your rank, yellow, turkey toenails stepped in black fungus that grows like ivy through the cracked sidewalk of your crumbling nails; to display these monsters out in public, apparently without shame,  is in my view an unforgivable crime. Do you not feel the angry stares of those around you, whom you sicken? Do you not taste the tears of small children who have gazed upon these beasts that you call feet? No you do not. You remain oblivious to your villainy.

If I were President or King or Emperor, my very first of order of business would be NO SANDALS. On men. Any man caught in sandals would be horsewhipped for a first offense. A second offense, and both feet would be chopped off at the ankle.  You, sir, now receiving your ramekin of salsa as you return to your seat displaying the bloodied muskrats that you walk on, you, sir, would be fired in a kiln until no trace of your DNA remained.

I remain yours in deep escalating disgust,

Mike Anthrope

Mike Anthrope

Mike Anthrope is a comedian based in Los Angeles. Originally from Chicago, where he worked in a used auto parts store, Mike has traveled the world in search of trivial things that disgust him so that, by their omission, he might discover the things he loves.

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