Sunday, August 24, 2008
Monday, August 4, 2008
Random Thoughts...
Thought #1 concerns a little 3 year old boy and his 20 minute tantrum. Let me preface this by saying that my own 4 year old boy threw his own version of this satanic ritual later in the day, so I really can empathize.
I was at the gym after swimming laps, in the locker room. This lady (known from here on as "mom") comes in with her two boys, ages 3 and maybe 7. Little Mikey (age 3) didn't want to come in from the pool, and was quite vocal about it. This, I get. The pool is fun. Who wants to leave? And it's noon, so he's hungry too. Baaaad combination. If you throw in that he's a little tired too, well, it's all over. Anyway, little Mikey was literally screaming at the top of his lungs in this rather small, enclosed locker room. It's a cinder-block locker room, with lovely high ceilings that do a great job of amplifying sounds. Little Mikey was screaming about everything - he didn't like his towel, he thought his towel was falling off, he wanted to wear his bathing suit, he wanted to change, he didn't like that shirt, he needed to go potty, he didn't need to go potty, etc. I actually heard this mom have a 3 minute argument with screaming little Mikey about WHICH STALL HE WANTED TO USE. "Ok Mikey - Let's go in this one. No? You don't want this one? Which one do you want? That one? OK - let's go in that one. No? How about this one?" and so on. Then there was the "You want to sit down or stand up? Sit down? OK. No? You want to stand up? Ok. No? How about you try sitting down?", all the while little Mikey is screaming bloody murder and giving us all migraines. This all went on - seriously - for 20 minutes until I was finally able to escape the confines of Mikey's hell.
As I stated earlier, I totally get this woman's predicament and have been in the same situation many times before. What puzzled me was this: at no point in the 20 minutes did the mom ever say or do ANYTHING to discourage this behavior. No "Mikey - I want you to stop that right now." No "Mikey, if you don't stop that behavior right now, then you will suffer consequence x." Nothing! Just a lot of "Sweetie - no one wants to listen to you scream." and "Sweetie, you need to calm down." I thought - "Man, she is raising a little terrorist!" This will be the kid that disrupts the entire class because his pencil falls on the floor.
I really wanted to go up to little Mikey and say "Mikey, you will stop that crying right this second. You will go in that stall and go potty. If you don't quiet down right now, you will not come back to this pool for a week." And if he didn't do it? I would haul his half-dressed, soaking wet ass out to the car right then, and give him some quality time in his room for awhile. I mean really - to not only make any moves at all to correct that behavior, but then to subject the rest of us to it...it's just insane. Too many parents these days refuse to make their kids take responsibility for their actions and behaviors.
Thought #2 concerns staying at home with your kids. Someone I came in contact with over the weekend was of the viewpoint that if you choose to stay at home and raise your kids, then you have no right to complain about your day, or the kid's behaviors, or anything. I call bullshit on this one. Being a full-time parent is a JOB. It's hard work. Everyone else in any job or position has bad days, and complains from time to time, whether it be about their cranky boss or that rude client, or dense management. Maybe they don't like to new benefits package, or that they don't have casual Fridays. Maybe their co-worker puts boogers under the cubicle, or the men in the bathroom always leave the toilet seat up. Who knows? But everyone does it, even in the best of jobs.
Why is being a full-time parent different? I can't complain because my clients bitched and whined and screamed at me all day? (cause they do). I can't complain when I'm unable to take vacation time? (it's been 3 weeks since I even was able to use the bathroom uninterrupted.) What if I don't think I get paid enough? (or at all?) And overtime? Fuggedaboutit.
Hey Mr. "If you don't like it, you should go get a job": I have a job. I work 16 hours a day, 7 days a week. I clean up shit and puke. I ferry people from piano lesson to playdate to birthday parties. I make sure we have groceries and everyone eats 3 meals a day. I make sure all of our friends and family members birthdays are remembered (well - most of them anyway). I send baby gifts. I plan and execute birthday parties. I do laundry and dishes 7 days a week. I make sure everyone gets haircuts and check ups and flu shots. I make sure we don't drown in pet hair, or get a dreaded disease from our bathroom sinks. I am a VP on the school's PTA Board. I serve on the school's School Advisory Council. I am a Brownie Leader. I am a reading coach. I am a homeroom mom. 19 First graders went home with personalized scrapbooks of their school year because of me. Two girls who didn't even speak English at the start of the year were reading on level at the end of the year, due in part to my help. I raise money and walk in charity walks. I cook/provide meals for friends who are having chemo, or who have had a baby, or who have lost a loved one. I dust, change beds, weed flower beds, scrub the pool deck, schedule oil changes, and organize closets. I plan vacations and paint baseboards. I biy school supplies and uniform shirts and new shoes. And then - in my FREE TIME - I make home-made play doh, or read stories, or take my kids to the Library every week. I help them learn how to latch hook or build train tracks. I help them paint pictures or make crafts. I play games with them, or swim with them, or take them bike riding.
This is just the top of the iceberg, bud. I have worked a 40 hour a week corporate job, and I have been a stay-at-home parent. I have perspective and experience on BOTH sides of the coin. You have only worked in an office. You would not last 3 days doing what I do.
Do I regret it? The staying home part? Not really. I chose to have these kids, and it's my job to raise them. Not a Nanny's job, not a daycare's job. Regardless of their qualifications, no one is going to raise them and care for them better than I do. It's fun sometimes. It's work most times. It's downright awful on occasion.
But it IS a job, and I DO have full right to complain now and then.
To all you "stay at home" moms (who are never actually at home): YOU GO GIRL! You are doing a righteous thing, and someone out here knows what you are going through. To all the single parents out there? God bless you. I am awed by what you do.
For all of the critics? The ones who get business trips and lunches at restaurants and can play solitare while on the phone and wear nice clothes? The ones who get pay raises and positive feedback and job recognition?
Shut the hell up.
I was at the gym after swimming laps, in the locker room. This lady (known from here on as "mom") comes in with her two boys, ages 3 and maybe 7. Little Mikey (age 3) didn't want to come in from the pool, and was quite vocal about it. This, I get. The pool is fun. Who wants to leave? And it's noon, so he's hungry too. Baaaad combination. If you throw in that he's a little tired too, well, it's all over. Anyway, little Mikey was literally screaming at the top of his lungs in this rather small, enclosed locker room. It's a cinder-block locker room, with lovely high ceilings that do a great job of amplifying sounds. Little Mikey was screaming about everything - he didn't like his towel, he thought his towel was falling off, he wanted to wear his bathing suit, he wanted to change, he didn't like that shirt, he needed to go potty, he didn't need to go potty, etc. I actually heard this mom have a 3 minute argument with screaming little Mikey about WHICH STALL HE WANTED TO USE. "Ok Mikey - Let's go in this one. No? You don't want this one? Which one do you want? That one? OK - let's go in that one. No? How about this one?" and so on. Then there was the "You want to sit down or stand up? Sit down? OK. No? You want to stand up? Ok. No? How about you try sitting down?", all the while little Mikey is screaming bloody murder and giving us all migraines. This all went on - seriously - for 20 minutes until I was finally able to escape the confines of Mikey's hell.
As I stated earlier, I totally get this woman's predicament and have been in the same situation many times before. What puzzled me was this: at no point in the 20 minutes did the mom ever say or do ANYTHING to discourage this behavior. No "Mikey - I want you to stop that right now." No "Mikey, if you don't stop that behavior right now, then you will suffer consequence x." Nothing! Just a lot of "Sweetie - no one wants to listen to you scream." and "Sweetie, you need to calm down." I thought - "Man, she is raising a little terrorist!" This will be the kid that disrupts the entire class because his pencil falls on the floor.
I really wanted to go up to little Mikey and say "Mikey, you will stop that crying right this second. You will go in that stall and go potty. If you don't quiet down right now, you will not come back to this pool for a week." And if he didn't do it? I would haul his half-dressed, soaking wet ass out to the car right then, and give him some quality time in his room for awhile. I mean really - to not only make any moves at all to correct that behavior, but then to subject the rest of us to it...it's just insane. Too many parents these days refuse to make their kids take responsibility for their actions and behaviors.
Thought #2 concerns staying at home with your kids. Someone I came in contact with over the weekend was of the viewpoint that if you choose to stay at home and raise your kids, then you have no right to complain about your day, or the kid's behaviors, or anything. I call bullshit on this one. Being a full-time parent is a JOB. It's hard work. Everyone else in any job or position has bad days, and complains from time to time, whether it be about their cranky boss or that rude client, or dense management. Maybe they don't like to new benefits package, or that they don't have casual Fridays. Maybe their co-worker puts boogers under the cubicle, or the men in the bathroom always leave the toilet seat up. Who knows? But everyone does it, even in the best of jobs.
Why is being a full-time parent different? I can't complain because my clients bitched and whined and screamed at me all day? (cause they do). I can't complain when I'm unable to take vacation time? (it's been 3 weeks since I even was able to use the bathroom uninterrupted.) What if I don't think I get paid enough? (or at all?) And overtime? Fuggedaboutit.
Hey Mr. "If you don't like it, you should go get a job": I have a job. I work 16 hours a day, 7 days a week. I clean up shit and puke. I ferry people from piano lesson to playdate to birthday parties. I make sure we have groceries and everyone eats 3 meals a day. I make sure all of our friends and family members birthdays are remembered (well - most of them anyway). I send baby gifts. I plan and execute birthday parties. I do laundry and dishes 7 days a week. I make sure everyone gets haircuts and check ups and flu shots. I make sure we don't drown in pet hair, or get a dreaded disease from our bathroom sinks. I am a VP on the school's PTA Board. I serve on the school's School Advisory Council. I am a Brownie Leader. I am a reading coach. I am a homeroom mom. 19 First graders went home with personalized scrapbooks of their school year because of me. Two girls who didn't even speak English at the start of the year were reading on level at the end of the year, due in part to my help. I raise money and walk in charity walks. I cook/provide meals for friends who are having chemo, or who have had a baby, or who have lost a loved one. I dust, change beds, weed flower beds, scrub the pool deck, schedule oil changes, and organize closets. I plan vacations and paint baseboards. I biy school supplies and uniform shirts and new shoes. And then - in my FREE TIME - I make home-made play doh, or read stories, or take my kids to the Library every week. I help them learn how to latch hook or build train tracks. I help them paint pictures or make crafts. I play games with them, or swim with them, or take them bike riding.
This is just the top of the iceberg, bud. I have worked a 40 hour a week corporate job, and I have been a stay-at-home parent. I have perspective and experience on BOTH sides of the coin. You have only worked in an office. You would not last 3 days doing what I do.
Do I regret it? The staying home part? Not really. I chose to have these kids, and it's my job to raise them. Not a Nanny's job, not a daycare's job. Regardless of their qualifications, no one is going to raise them and care for them better than I do. It's fun sometimes. It's work most times. It's downright awful on occasion.
But it IS a job, and I DO have full right to complain now and then.
To all you "stay at home" moms (who are never actually at home): YOU GO GIRL! You are doing a righteous thing, and someone out here knows what you are going through. To all the single parents out there? God bless you. I am awed by what you do.
For all of the critics? The ones who get business trips and lunches at restaurants and can play solitare while on the phone and wear nice clothes? The ones who get pay raises and positive feedback and job recognition?
Shut the hell up.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Someone Else Hates Crocs Too...
I'll apologize in advance to all of you who love 'em, but I'll admit it: I hate Crocs. I think they are stupid, clunky looking ridiculous shoes, and I have not spent one red dime to buy any for myself or for my kids. My kids have 3 pairs of "imitation Crocs" between them - all three were given to them. Two of them have, well, "mysteriously" disappeared. Oops. Chase will trip over dead flat floor for no reason at all...putting him in Crocs is like riding the express train to the Emergency Room. My friend Paige has one pair that qualifies as cute. They are wedge-heeled ones, and you know why the're cute? THEY DON'T LOOK LIKE CROCS, THAT'S WHY!!!
So, in support of my point of view, I'm sharing with you an article I read today at Newsweek online. It's pretty damned funny, if you don't take offense to it. Enjoy!
Make. It. Stop.
The case for ending our long national nightmare.
By Steve Tuttle | Newsweek Web Exclusive
I like to play a game with my son, Joseph. We sit on a bench in touristy Old Town, Alexandria, Va., and we're not allowed to get up until we see a dozen pairs of Crocs. It usually doesn't take long. But the other day we were stuck at eight after a few minutes, and I was getting a little concerned. Just then my boy leaned over and said, "Don't worry, Dad. A family of dorks will come along any minute." To paraphrase Hank Hill, if he wasn't my son, I would have hugged him right then, I was so proud.
I know what you're thinking: what kind of sick father lets his impressionable young son call people dorks because of the shoes they wear? Well, who else will teach him that wearing sweaty bright purple clown shoes in public is not OK? He certainly won't learn that lesson at school. Teachers seem to be some of the biggest abusers of this horrid fad.
I know what else you're thinking: "I like Crocs … they're so comfortable. I'll tell you who the dork is … the guy writing this story, that's who! And who died and made him the fashion authority anyway?" Well, no one. I own pitted-out T shirts that are more than a quarter of a century old, and I've been known to strut around town in some pleated khaki Dockers. I own one belt. A female colleague even told me once I'd be a "perfect candidate for 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy'." I think she was trying to be helpful. My complete lack of fashion sense actually supports my theory, because even I know these things are an abomination.
Yes, I'm really, really late to the Crocs-bashing party. Really late. Plenty of fashionistas have written screeds over the years. But the damn things are still here, so this is no time to stop fighting. To quote the great John Belushi: "Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell, no!"
I've been following the good work of Web sites like I Hate Crocs Dot Com for some time, even going so far as to submit a photograph of a stuffed skunk spraying a pair of pink Crocs. The fantastic Best Page In The Universe posted a hilarious rant a while back joking that people who bought Crocs on Amazon.com also bought frozen corn dogs, Pabst Blue Ribbon Light and trucker balls, as well as the CD single "Hey There, Delilah" by the Plain White T's. The rant's author, Maddox, writes: "People who wear Crocs go on and on about how comfortable they are, and how it's supposedly odor resistant because it's made out of some kind of anti-bacterial foam … You know what else it's resistant to? You getting laid."
A popular YouTube video called "Dorcs" parodies the trend: "Wow, but they're so ugly," says an office worker to her friend. "That's how you know they're comfortable," he says. By the end, she's a convert: "I've given fashion the finger, and joined the Dorcs revolution!" The Crocs Empire is acutely aware of us haters. Even their own commercials make fun of the irrational and over-the-top rage their shoes instill in people like me. In one, an unshaven lunatic holds a neon blue Croc in front of his face and screams, "Why are you wearing these!" for 30 seconds. I only wish I'd known about the tryouts for this commercial.
Crocs's stock price has cratered of late, so there is hope. According to the Rocky Mountain News, the shoes, "which were once so popular that the company couldn't keep pace with demand, are now piling up in warehouses." Maybe the company's just a victim of its own success. If practically every person in the U.S. already has a pair and they're indestructible, how many more can you sell? The same thing happened to Wham-O back in the 1950s with the Hula Hoop.
But the company isn't giving up. They've been diversifying, sponsoring Olympic teams and veering off into sandals and other designs, trying to fool us. They've even gone so far as to create a high-heeled Croc. OMG, as the kids say. These have to be seen to be believed. I recommend only the strong of heart should attempt to Google "high-heeled Croc." The company Web site has this ominous warning for us: "Today, Crocs™ Shoes are available all over the world and on the internet as we continue to significantly expand all aspects of our business" (italics added). That sounds like a threat to me. They're even suing other companies like Skechers for allegedly stealing their great idea. Skechers says the lawsuit is "baseless," "outlandish," and "ridiculous." I'll tell you what's outlandish and ridiculous: that these things sell so much that another company would feel compelled to copy them, allegedly. Don't we have enough eye pollution with just the originals still out there? Don't be fooled, America! Soylent Green is CROCS!!!
If you think about it, the Crocs company should really be admired. P. T. Barnum would be proud. They've managed to separate money from the wallets of millions and millions of seemingly sane people who wake up, look in the closet, and actually decide: "Today I'll leave the house wearing these neon-green Dutch bubble shoes with Swiss-cheese holes in them. Maybe I'll even buy some little plastic strawberries or bananas and jam them in the sweat holes, just to jazz things up and make the bacteria incubate faster." That's fine. I say do whatever you want in the privacy of your own home. Let your Crocs freak flag fly. But don't make the rest of us watch.
I realize this article might not go down too well even in my own editorial office and certainly not in our ad sales department. My boss in Washington read an early draft and said it was funny, but that I had a "somewhat demented obsessiveness." At least he threw me a "somewhat." Another editor wondered aloud if I had perhaps been trampled by Crocs at some point in my life. I also worry about writing this because some of my best friends—and their sweet, innocent children—wear them. One of my dearest—the sister I never had—introduced me to the shoes years ago when she waltzed into a garden party in a pair of bright hot-pink Crocs. I couldn't stop staring at them. "What are those things?!" I whimpered nervously, hoping maybe she was rehabbing from some sort of strange Achilles mishap. "Oh, they're called Crocs … I got them for gardening," she said, so innocently.
Oh, if only we'd known what a tsunami of fashion idiocy was about to be unleashed, maybe we could have stopped it somehow, and they would have stayed in the garden where they belong, covered with manure, a trendy item to be featured on www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com. If only. Then they wouldn't be out there in the American mainstream, that big, vast, sweaty mainstream traipsing through our airports and over our beaches and around our great shopping malls. Plop, plop, plop, they go, stuffing their Crocs faces with ice cream and Doritos and giant sodas. Plop, plop, plop. Stuff, stuff, stuff. Yuck, yuck, yuck. And the rest of us have to watch. I spent eight hours waiting on a flight at Dulles over the 4th of July week and I was just minutes from tackling the next group of Crocs ploppers I saw. Luckily for me—and the ploppers—my flight finally arrived and I wasn't arrested for assault. Knowing my luck, I'd have shown up in court to find 12 pairs of Crocs sitting in the jury box.
It would have probably been better for my career if I just posted this as an anonymous Craigslist rant as CrocsHatah35 or something. Plenty of others have spouted off about Crocs there. And sure, I would have had a lot more readers. But Craigslist doesn't write my paychecks, and this is just too important to ignore another day. Some times you just have to make a stand, even if it's a few years late. Do we really think we're going to stop global warming if we can't even end this fashion Chernobyl once and for all? I think the U.S. government should institute a Crocs buyback policy, like they do in the inner city for guns. It would do more to beautify this great land than Lady Bird's highway beautification program ever did.
So I'm begging you, America. Just stop. When you wake up tomorrow and look at your options, choose flip-flops. Go barefoot. Wear boots. Anything but Crocs. By next summer—if we all work together—we can have this plague of bad taste virtually eliminated. Yes! We! Can!
So, in support of my point of view, I'm sharing with you an article I read today at Newsweek online. It's pretty damned funny, if you don't take offense to it. Enjoy!
Make. It. Stop.
The case for ending our long national nightmare.
By Steve Tuttle | Newsweek Web Exclusive
I like to play a game with my son, Joseph. We sit on a bench in touristy Old Town, Alexandria, Va., and we're not allowed to get up until we see a dozen pairs of Crocs. It usually doesn't take long. But the other day we were stuck at eight after a few minutes, and I was getting a little concerned. Just then my boy leaned over and said, "Don't worry, Dad. A family of dorks will come along any minute." To paraphrase Hank Hill, if he wasn't my son, I would have hugged him right then, I was so proud.
I know what you're thinking: what kind of sick father lets his impressionable young son call people dorks because of the shoes they wear? Well, who else will teach him that wearing sweaty bright purple clown shoes in public is not OK? He certainly won't learn that lesson at school. Teachers seem to be some of the biggest abusers of this horrid fad.
I know what else you're thinking: "I like Crocs … they're so comfortable. I'll tell you who the dork is … the guy writing this story, that's who! And who died and made him the fashion authority anyway?" Well, no one. I own pitted-out T shirts that are more than a quarter of a century old, and I've been known to strut around town in some pleated khaki Dockers. I own one belt. A female colleague even told me once I'd be a "perfect candidate for 'Queer Eye for the Straight Guy'." I think she was trying to be helpful. My complete lack of fashion sense actually supports my theory, because even I know these things are an abomination.
Yes, I'm really, really late to the Crocs-bashing party. Really late. Plenty of fashionistas have written screeds over the years. But the damn things are still here, so this is no time to stop fighting. To quote the great John Belushi: "Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell, no!"
I've been following the good work of Web sites like I Hate Crocs Dot Com for some time, even going so far as to submit a photograph of a stuffed skunk spraying a pair of pink Crocs. The fantastic Best Page In The Universe posted a hilarious rant a while back joking that people who bought Crocs on Amazon.com also bought frozen corn dogs, Pabst Blue Ribbon Light and trucker balls, as well as the CD single "Hey There, Delilah" by the Plain White T's. The rant's author, Maddox, writes: "People who wear Crocs go on and on about how comfortable they are, and how it's supposedly odor resistant because it's made out of some kind of anti-bacterial foam … You know what else it's resistant to? You getting laid."
A popular YouTube video called "Dorcs" parodies the trend: "Wow, but they're so ugly," says an office worker to her friend. "That's how you know they're comfortable," he says. By the end, she's a convert: "I've given fashion the finger, and joined the Dorcs revolution!" The Crocs Empire is acutely aware of us haters. Even their own commercials make fun of the irrational and over-the-top rage their shoes instill in people like me. In one, an unshaven lunatic holds a neon blue Croc in front of his face and screams, "Why are you wearing these!" for 30 seconds. I only wish I'd known about the tryouts for this commercial.
Crocs's stock price has cratered of late, so there is hope. According to the Rocky Mountain News, the shoes, "which were once so popular that the company couldn't keep pace with demand, are now piling up in warehouses." Maybe the company's just a victim of its own success. If practically every person in the U.S. already has a pair and they're indestructible, how many more can you sell? The same thing happened to Wham-O back in the 1950s with the Hula Hoop.
But the company isn't giving up. They've been diversifying, sponsoring Olympic teams and veering off into sandals and other designs, trying to fool us. They've even gone so far as to create a high-heeled Croc. OMG, as the kids say. These have to be seen to be believed. I recommend only the strong of heart should attempt to Google "high-heeled Croc." The company Web site has this ominous warning for us: "Today, Crocs™ Shoes are available all over the world and on the internet as we continue to significantly expand all aspects of our business" (italics added). That sounds like a threat to me. They're even suing other companies like Skechers for allegedly stealing their great idea. Skechers says the lawsuit is "baseless," "outlandish," and "ridiculous." I'll tell you what's outlandish and ridiculous: that these things sell so much that another company would feel compelled to copy them, allegedly. Don't we have enough eye pollution with just the originals still out there? Don't be fooled, America! Soylent Green is CROCS!!!
If you think about it, the Crocs company should really be admired. P. T. Barnum would be proud. They've managed to separate money from the wallets of millions and millions of seemingly sane people who wake up, look in the closet, and actually decide: "Today I'll leave the house wearing these neon-green Dutch bubble shoes with Swiss-cheese holes in them. Maybe I'll even buy some little plastic strawberries or bananas and jam them in the sweat holes, just to jazz things up and make the bacteria incubate faster." That's fine. I say do whatever you want in the privacy of your own home. Let your Crocs freak flag fly. But don't make the rest of us watch.
I realize this article might not go down too well even in my own editorial office and certainly not in our ad sales department. My boss in Washington read an early draft and said it was funny, but that I had a "somewhat demented obsessiveness." At least he threw me a "somewhat." Another editor wondered aloud if I had perhaps been trampled by Crocs at some point in my life. I also worry about writing this because some of my best friends—and their sweet, innocent children—wear them. One of my dearest—the sister I never had—introduced me to the shoes years ago when she waltzed into a garden party in a pair of bright hot-pink Crocs. I couldn't stop staring at them. "What are those things?!" I whimpered nervously, hoping maybe she was rehabbing from some sort of strange Achilles mishap. "Oh, they're called Crocs … I got them for gardening," she said, so innocently.
Oh, if only we'd known what a tsunami of fashion idiocy was about to be unleashed, maybe we could have stopped it somehow, and they would have stayed in the garden where they belong, covered with manure, a trendy item to be featured on www.stuffwhitepeoplelike.com. If only. Then they wouldn't be out there in the American mainstream, that big, vast, sweaty mainstream traipsing through our airports and over our beaches and around our great shopping malls. Plop, plop, plop, they go, stuffing their Crocs faces with ice cream and Doritos and giant sodas. Plop, plop, plop. Stuff, stuff, stuff. Yuck, yuck, yuck. And the rest of us have to watch. I spent eight hours waiting on a flight at Dulles over the 4th of July week and I was just minutes from tackling the next group of Crocs ploppers I saw. Luckily for me—and the ploppers—my flight finally arrived and I wasn't arrested for assault. Knowing my luck, I'd have shown up in court to find 12 pairs of Crocs sitting in the jury box.
It would have probably been better for my career if I just posted this as an anonymous Craigslist rant as CrocsHatah35 or something. Plenty of others have spouted off about Crocs there. And sure, I would have had a lot more readers. But Craigslist doesn't write my paychecks, and this is just too important to ignore another day. Some times you just have to make a stand, even if it's a few years late. Do we really think we're going to stop global warming if we can't even end this fashion Chernobyl once and for all? I think the U.S. government should institute a Crocs buyback policy, like they do in the inner city for guns. It would do more to beautify this great land than Lady Bird's highway beautification program ever did.
So I'm begging you, America. Just stop. When you wake up tomorrow and look at your options, choose flip-flops. Go barefoot. Wear boots. Anything but Crocs. By next summer—if we all work together—we can have this plague of bad taste virtually eliminated. Yes! We! Can!
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