Now, let me preface this a bit by throwing this out there for anyone to catch. I am not a hippie. I mean not even kind of. My wardrobe looks more like Kerry King than Jimi Hendrix. Yes, I do own a pair of sandals. One pair, compared to the 3 pair of work boots and 1 pair of cowboy boots. Those sandals are a bit ragged from my Velociraptor toes wearing down the front part. They are also covered with grease and oil, cause I will throw those on my Flintstone paws, meander out to the garage to work on this engine or that motorcycle and end up tossing them to the side and just going barefoot. I can’t even properly walk in sandals and I am not afraid of saying so. My damn feet slide all around in them, my toes cramp up from trying to keep them from flying into the air striking a bird or small child, and that floppy part in the front always seems to catch on everything in my path, causing me to stumble, curse, retrieve said sandal, and hurl it angrily as far as I can. So yes, even though I own sandals I don’t really wear them.
Sandals? Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, hippies! Hippies and Puppies. Sad Puppies and Rabid Puppies. Puppies and Hugos! Hugos and people! Continue reading