Thursday, October 31, 2002
The Sex Life of Socks
Yes, someone has written about the Sex Life of Socks. I found it Googling for "The Joy of Sox." I was following up on Tuesday's Schmerltz re-evocation. I suppose I should have expected no less.
Here is but a small sampling of the insights awaiting you:
From a human perspective, the mating behaviour of socks seems highly ordered. Each sock has its destined partner from day one, and barring accidents or natural disasters, each pairing is supposed to last for many long, toe-warming years. And when at last an elderly sock gives up the ghost and disappears to the great laundry basket in the sky, its bereft partner will surely find its life devoid of purpose, and relinquish the will to grip, only occasionally getting a second chance at a useful existence as a glove puppet, duster, or novelty penis-cosy.
However, this vision of socklife actually reeks of prejudice, half-truths and out-moded moral standards. Try looking at things from the point of view of a sock. (If you are by nature unimaginative or overly literal, then lying on the floor with your head in a shoe might help.) Why should creed, colour or the presence of man-made fibres dictate a sock's choice of life-partner? They shouldn't. Socks don't ask for much (when was the last time you heard one ask for anything, in fact?). All they desire is freedom to choose who they wish to love, whether for a lifetime or a day, and not to be shackled into an unfeeling relationship just because humans deem it right. So there.
For more musings on the secret lives of sox, see also: The Bureau of Missing Sox
Here is but a small sampling of the insights awaiting you:
From a human perspective, the mating behaviour of socks seems highly ordered. Each sock has its destined partner from day one, and barring accidents or natural disasters, each pairing is supposed to last for many long, toe-warming years. And when at last an elderly sock gives up the ghost and disappears to the great laundry basket in the sky, its bereft partner will surely find its life devoid of purpose, and relinquish the will to grip, only occasionally getting a second chance at a useful existence as a glove puppet, duster, or novelty penis-cosy.
However, this vision of socklife actually reeks of prejudice, half-truths and out-moded moral standards. Try looking at things from the point of view of a sock. (If you are by nature unimaginative or overly literal, then lying on the floor with your head in a shoe might help.) Why should creed, colour or the presence of man-made fibres dictate a sock's choice of life-partner? They shouldn't. Socks don't ask for much (when was the last time you heard one ask for anything, in fact?). All they desire is freedom to choose who they wish to love, whether for a lifetime or a day, and not to be shackled into an unfeeling relationship just because humans deem it right. So there.
For more musings on the secret lives of sox, see also: The Bureau of Missing Sox
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