TORONTO – Although he has replaced his plain white socks with bold and colourful ones, local man Allen Cheung will still know the cold taste of oblivion and the comfortless embrace of the grave.
“I realized it was time for my ankles to stop being so drab,” said Cheung, whose days have already been counted on the unfeeling clockwork of the universe. “The use of contrasting colour really ties the whole outfit together.”
While Cheung’s friends are quick to high-five him and call him ‘son’ while discussing his strong sock game, they also admit, when pressed, that he is an animal made of meat that will fester, then dry, then crumble away to cinders and dust.
“It’s worth paying extra for well-made socks, because they’ll last longer,” said Cheung, as if anything can really, truly last. “When you think about it, socks are just cardigans for your feet. The same rules apply, dude.”
Foolishly, Cheung has also signed up for a one-year subscription to Socks Magazine, as though it wasn’t possible for the universe to reclaim his matter at any point.
“Allen’s sock game used to be here, but now it’s like, here, man,” said friend Wali Qutub, moving his mortal hand from a low position to a high position.
Since experimenting with patterned socks, Cheung has also begun wearing gingham shirts, pocket puffs, and using the word ‘sartorial’ in daily conversation, none of which will lengthen his mayfly span of days, or do anything to keep the endless emptiness, on which all matter floats like a scrap of flimsy gossamer, from washing him away entirely.
At press time, new episodes of ‘Chef’s Table’ were also powerless to save him.