After last week’s sentimental journey down his personal memory lane (which your friendly bartender truly enjoyed sharing with you), he’s decided to return to the arena in which he’s most comfortable… that of ranting and raving. And the subject of this week’s rant are these things called “flip-flops”.
Are you serious, Scribbler, flip-flops? You mean we’ve traveled all this way through cyberspace to your place and this is what we’re discussing over the mahogany? Frigging flip-flops?
Yes, flip-flops, my valued and esteemed patron. And not those politicians, mind you, who ride both sides of the fence on myriad policy issues (a fence if I had my way would be made of barbed wire), but the flip-flops that some have the nerve to call footwear. Footwear in restaurants! So sip your drink and let me break this down for you…..
First of all, before we even go into the restaurant and discuss the sins of wearing such things in public, your friendly bartender has got to pose this question. What makes a grown man, the minute the mercury hits sixty degrees, feel the need to shelve his shoes and replace them with slabs of rubber which house nothing? In other words, what makes an otherwise seemingly sane person, an upward-walking homo-sapiens type person, decide that his best sartorial endeavor in displaying his best-shod self can be accomplished by donning a pair of foam rubber pads? Pads last seen in a shower stall, (doubtless), crawling with various fungi, highlighting now one of God’s unsightliest creations… the male foot. I just don’t get it. I mean there’s a thing called open-toed shoes, my man, best seen on sisters not brethren, and then there’s this thing called “open foot” which you’re sportin’. They cover nothing. Have you no sense of what grosses people out?
And second of all, Dude, since you do insist on making this annual fashion mis-statement… whereby you can’t wait to drop the leather and don the rubber… what’s the rush that I’m already seeing this in April? In fucking April!!! Hey, it’s not even close to summer, my friend, and with climate changes being what they are it could snow at any minute and you’d be less likely looking at “coolness” but rather frostbite. Or a severe case of ingrown stupidity.
Now, many restaurants I’m sure do not permit this non-footwear practice (Scribbler’s included) but far too many pay this thing no mind. Thus a family of four who is out on the town for their once-a-month big night out, is forced to dine within reek shot of Dude’s metatarsus. Not cool.
So to wrap this up, barefoot contester, let me put it to you this way. The only restaurants where flip-flops are acceptable are the places with sand on the floor… places whose drinks come in coconut shells not goblets. And where the favored activity is not dine-and-chat but bending over backwards under a limbo pole. And so when I do see some cat with his big nasty peds stretched out into the aisle in a civilized eatery, his big bare nasty peds stretched out into the aisle in a civilized eatery, I want to hand him a thick pair of argyles and hit him with something like the following… “Excuse me, Tarzan, some of us are eating over here and unless you’re about to go down to the basement and stomp us some fucking grapes for the house red, you need to slap some fabric over those gun boats! Cover up, man!”
Ahh, but what’s the use in bitching, right? Civility’s gone forever. For in a society where people show up for the theater looking like they’re on their way to a pie eating contest, or the arm wresting finals in Petaluma, California, what surprise is shower shoes worn in a restaurant? None. I just wonder how this might’ve played out years ago in a restaurant in old New York, with a barefoot man coming in and asking for a table. Well, I’ll tell you how. He would’ve been asked what circus he’s from and sent right back to it. Finish your drink, dear reader, I’m going on break now.
Over and out from Bar-land, see ya’ next week-end!