Excuse my tardiness, for I have been most certainly delinquent in my Dapper™ blogifications. But to be frank... I 'm beginning to ponder what I find more deeply disquieting...
The fact that I have been missing for several long weeks, or the fact that NOBODY SEEMED TO NOTICE!!!!
I thought someone might inquire, or at least send a search party out to ascertain my whereabouts, but apparently Link Worthington III, Esq. isn't quite worth the effort. Well, I had the stratagem to just simply pretend to have been amiss in my professorial duties, due to fabulousity and drink, or dazzle you with tales of extreme sexually-charged international chicanery, but the truth is far more horrifying.
But that's for another day. As soon as the nightmares soften, the sores heal, and my sphincter stops quivering, then and only then, will I entertain the thought of passing on the blood-curdling details of my disappearance.
Which brings me to the subject of today's bloggery: SHOES. After weeks of sporting nothing but duct tape and Chinese take-out boxes, the first thing I did was to slip my precious little pitties into my coveted "Rodney of Burbank" loafers. Renowned for his use of only the most endangered animal skins, his footwear excel in both sheer audacity and soft pillowy comfort.
Mr. Rodney personally invites his most valued patrons along to hand pick the "raw materials" with which he'll weave his huarache magic, so off to the Hydrofoil! My last excursion was to the frozen tundra of Greenland, to find just the perfectly portly Phoca groenlandica pup pelt. Decisions, decisions! So many porky pelts to peruse. And times a tickin': We've only a few days to "harvest" the best snowy white furs before they molt! I just need to find the right little fellas and give them a hearty whack upside the noggin. I brought my own club along for this endeavor: A 3-foot long picana negra wood stocked, platinum tipped facilitator of fabulously fine feathery footwear.
But as I gaze hypnotically into those deep, moist, jet-black peepers, I can't seem to muster the inner blood-thirsty killer that I know lurks inside me. I have not a touch of chagrin with butchering my unruly manservants, but I find myself unable to... strike... the fuzzy... little... puff...
WHACK!!! As luck would have it, Mr. Rodney instantly notices my trepidation, and gentleman that he is, promptly pummels the fuzzy imp to death. Heavenly loafers, here I come!
And oh how that buttery soft baby seal fur soothes my horrible carbuncles, corns, and calluses. Cheers to you, Rodney!
Now if only we can rid ourselves of those pesky PETA agitators forever blocking patronage to your fine establishment. Today it's the seal slip-ons, tomorrow... who knows? Will they be ruffled by your Kitten Klogs™? Your Tibetan Sand Fox puppy pumps? And why pray tell is it only the homeliest of the group that must strip and paint faux blood all over their corpulent frames??? I've a right mind to protest their visual pollution! Well... as soon as my sphinter ceases to quiver that is.