The World's Most Expensive Shoelaces

No, we're not talking about the ones the President of Dirkadirkastan bought his nagging wife as an apology after a night of knocking back frozen Stolis with the boys. We're talking about this:

Woman Sues Nike Over Poor Shoe Design

The Nike Corporation is reviewing a complaint by a woman who argues she fell while running when her shoelace hooked on the back of her right shoe tab. Due to the permanent injury to her right wrist, the woman, who is an orthopedic surgeon, claims she can no longer perform operations by herself. The claim, which seeks an award upward of ten million dollars, has been filed in the State of New York.

This gives me an idea. Let me tell you my (mostly) true story and you can let me know whom I should sue.

One day while I was jogging over to the orphanage to bring them chewable vitamins (the ones shaped like Hollywood celebrities, the ones with the slogan "they make you grind your teeth anyway, so you might as well get something good out of it") I stopped to tie my shoelaces. The laces had come undone because I had to donate one of them to make a tourniquet for a hemophiliac woman who had stabbed herself with a "Save the Whales - Collect the Whole Set" button. I cut the other shoelace in half with my teeth while rescuing a disabled child's cat from a tree, dangling the two halves in front of the feline to coax her down from the branches.

Anyway, I was tying my half shoelaces when my eyes chanced to rest upon an injured vole, struggling to limp it's way across the street. I got up to rescue the vole when I tripped on my untied shoelaces and fell to the ground. Just then, an asphalt repair truck drove by and as it swerved to miss me, boiling tar splashed out of one of its containers, splattering me with a mist of sticky, hot, black liquid.

It being a windy day, I was soon covered in bracken as the tumbleweeds that were prevalent in this area rolled past me and stuck on the tar. When I reached down to rescue the vole, I accidentally speared the little creature with a thorn that had affixed itself to my right hand, impaling the poor beast and killing it instantly.

Stricken with grief, I staggered back to the sidewalk and sat down heavily upon the curb, tears welling up in my eyes. As it turned out, the tears were due not to the grief of having committed Arvicolinaeicide, but instead due to the sudden rush of pain as a particularly long spike of tumbleweed drove itself into my nether regions.

Involuntarily I leaped up, and as luck would have it, the violent motions of my arms dislodged the vole from my hand and flung it across the street where it landed in the teacup of one Mrs. Gorgonblatz, noted society matron, who was entertaining the wife of the Peruvian Assistant Secretary of Agriculture in Charge of Broccoli Hybridization in the patio dining area of the posh bistro Le Cuiller Graisseux.

As you might expect, this caused quite a stir and, attempting to avoid a scene, I endeavored to innocently resume my journey to the orphanage without notice. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that it is not as easy to blend in with one's surroundings when one is covered with tar and brambles as one might think.

I was soon being pursued by the maitre d’ and two of his waiters who were brandishing salad dressing bottles and pepper mills in a most inhospitable manner, crying out dire threats to do me bodily harm. I pelted down the street at top speed, or as close to it as I might achieve, what with the bracken glued to my inner thighs chafing me mercilessly.

Seeking safe harbor, I ducked into the first open doorway I found. As fate would have it, the doorway belonged to Festus B. McGillicuddy, taxidermist, who was, at the time, on his hands and knees making repairs to the carpet directly in front of his door. (The repairs had been necessitated by an unfortunate incident involving a local hunter, a sewing needle and a puma who was not quite as dead as it first appeared. But I digress.)

I regret to inform you that my rapid entrance to his establishment and the unfortunate geometry of the situation led me to quite bowl over Mr. McGillicuddy and launch myself through the air onto his workbench where he was preparing an unusually large boar's head for a local sportsman.

I can now say with some certainty, that the diameter of a boar's head is somewhat less than that of a human head, but not so much less that it would be impossible to fit the latter inside the former with some application of force. This fascinating bit of information became quite vital to me as I attempted to remove the boar's head from my own.

At this time, the employees of Le Cuiller Graisseux entered the store and began to assail me with volleys of peppercorns and vinaigrette while fiercely exhorting me to avoid their establishment in the future. I can assure you that a blend of peppercorns, vinaigrette and small gashes on the skin from brambles is a most unpleasant combination.

To shorten this tale, let me just conclude by saying that I am now having to pay restitution to all concerned. However, my recent interaction with CALA has led me to believe that I might yet profit from this adventure with the proper mixture of defendants, fraudulent medical claims and unscrupulous attorneys.

I leave it to you, dear readers, to recommend a course of action that might maximize my advantage in this matter.

And I promise that all that I have related to you is true, save for the part directly following the phrase “One day.”

Postscript