Paul Parillo Where the fuck are my socks?

Honestly, where the fuck did my socks go? Several complete pairs went INTO the dryer, yet only a few mismatched ones came out. Robbery is out of the question because this happens everywhere and I can’t believe in such random coincidence. The way I see it, there’s only one possible explanation to this – all dryers have not one door, but two. The first door opens to take in laundry and the second opens when you’ve left your attention elsewhere to reveal an alternate universe where little magical creatures use individual socks to sustain the industry of their magical little world.  

Only people who harbor feelings of extreme inadequacy and unbalance at the thought of having mismatched socks can be privy to this new world. I’d be the first to say this is unfair to the owners of said socks but I remain hesitant if only out of ignorance to these magical creatures. What if their need for socks out-weighed our own? For all I know they don’t have proper currency and exist in some sort of utilitarian process – I can’t very well rob them of that which they are robbing me. But still, folding laundry only to find a zillion socks without their intended partner is an experience that leaves me fraught with venomous rage.

And think of the poor socks – “Honey, isn’t this your favourite part of being laundered? “Ahh yes, my love, nothing leaves me feeling fresher than the warmth of......oh my nipples what is thaaaaaa” “Honey, where are you......HEY! Get your slithery arms off my....NOOOO!!!!” It’s no wonder the socks stop fitting properly after a disastrous event like that.

There is, now, only one thing left to do – and that is to get into this other dimension. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I know if I remain idle to this problem, I’ll probably have to go buy more socks. 

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