For whatever reason, I received a catalog from “Birkis” today. Have you seen their shoes? They’re obviously the toothless bastard cousin of Crocs (which I loathe just slightly more than cotton jersey culotte pants). To look at them is to realize everything that is wrong with America, an offense that is underscored when mom, dad and all the little snot-faced Johnsons sport them for their Saturday afternoon shopping frenzy at Ikea. For chrissakes, our president wears them with anklebiters. That alone is a stinging indictment.

My distaste for these aerated, heel-strapped, charm-dangled, rubber-slipper-galosh-thingies is well documented. I’m being generous when I say this particular footwear has no place outside of the backyard because my true feeling is that it has no place. Period. I do have friends who wear them in public and despite the blackness of my heart, I haven’t scratched their names from invite lists or mocked them openly.

Okayokay, fine! So I’ve mocked them openly. But they’re still welcome at my parties. It gives me and the other guests with good taste something to snicker about. It’s a love-the-sinner-hate-the-sin kind of compromise.

Just to confirm my superior sensibilities, I thumbed through the pages of the Birkis catalog as I made my way to the recycle bin, and smack me upside the head with a Mickey Mouse Birki if I didn’t come across something that does, in fact, have a place:

They come in orange, black, white and apple green. They even offer one pair with straps!

Sam was excited because he thinks if I have some padding for my tender kneecaps, I’ll be more liberal with my blow job distribution. (Sort of like having the right workout clothes: Get the top with the built-in shelf bra and wicking fabric and suddenly you’re running 5 days a week.) Ever the optimist, he immediately suggested we place an order for one in every color. To—you know—suit my mood.

The poor guy never seems to learn that there really is only one mood—and it’s a rare one, nearly an annual one—in which we’d need to break out the knee protectors. But his persistence is endearing; I do so love that never-quit attitude. And I’d be a liar if I didn’t say that his concern for my comfort is moving.