"What a perfect summer we're going to have," John Mozeliak said to the mailman as he sat on the front porch and tied the dingy laces on his running shoes with holes in the toes and funny orange stains on one side. He bounced down the steps to the sidewalk and then tripped and fell when the sole of the left shoe tore away from the rest of the shoe and flipped underneath itself, leaving his hands and knees a bloody mess.
"I can't wait for the weather to get hot so we can invite the neighbors over for a barbecue!" John Mozeliak shouted to his wife as he headed toward the garage. He winced as his new leather dress shoes creaked with each step he took, but showed no signs of bending even a fraction of an inch, not even to accommodate the movement of his feet.
"How about a vacation on the beach this year?" John Mozeliak asked his kids as he sat on the couch and carefully peeled his socks off to inspect the red, oozing, painful blisters on his toes and heels caused by the miserable loafers he wore just rarely enough so that he would inevitably forget how uncomfortable they were in the meantime. The blisters would definitely require ointment.
"I can't remember the last time I had so much fun!" John Mozeliak remarked to his golf buddy as he sat down in the cart for the eighth time in half an hour so that he could stick a tee into his shoe and scratch his foot to relieve the horrible, all-consuming itching caused by some unknown fungus growing inside his golf shoes.
"You just can't beat a cold beer on a hot day," John Mozeliak told the neighbors as he passed around ice cold bottles of Budweiser. He then stepped right out of his left sandal when the strap broke, and put his bare foot down into a pile of dog poop graciously left there by the neighbor's miniature poodle named Princess.
To be continued...
