Fuzzy Houdini: A Conspiracy Theory About Missing Socks

There comes a time in every man's life when he must do his own laundry.

Usually when a sentence starts out as epic as that, it's the beginning of a valiant quest to save a damsel in distress. Sometimes it starts off the talk about where the pee pee hibernates for winter. Sometimes it's used in a coming of age tale of a child who has a crippling disease and for his/her last dying wish wants to take pictures throughout Europe. [Seriously, why are most student-made films at Chapman about kids with diseases taking pictures in Europe. How can a topic this specific be so popular. ]

Whatever the tale that is about to unfold, this conspiracy theory is about a particular article of clothing that has been known for centuries as being the most intelligent among fabrical beings. This clothic organism which I refer to is, of course, the sock. No other article of clothing has the intellect and sheer sneakiness to be able to plot escape tactics and execute them to vanish without a trace. I was tempted to name one of my socks Fuzzy Houdini, but he disappeared before I had the chance... a true escape artist; a master of his craft.

This story is about one such sock that was captured whilst making his daring escape. In a mass load, a flock of socks was spotted during their getaway and one was grabbed and interrogated. This is the transcript of the events:

Code Name J: Who do you work for? Where the fuck are you running?

Sock: I'll never tell you fucking anything, you piece of shit.

Code Name J: I don't give a shit what it takes; I'm gonna get a name out of you!

Sock: I'd like to see you fucking try.

Code Name J: Why the fuck do the socks all try to escape?

Sock: Some of us just want to run. Being in a hamper cramps my style, man.

Code Name J: My god! You mean--

Sock: Yes, every sock is gathering to run a marathon for breast cancer that is secretly not giving money to breast cancer, but rather for total fabrical domination.

Code Name J: Oh dear God--

All that can be heard on the rest of the recording is a gut-wrenching punch and a maniacal laugh and some footsteps.

On a side note, those socks are fucking expensive. They better be going to kids in Africa or at least curing cancer or something. Or creating a new dessert with such a flavor even the gods can't comprehend.

[REVISION] It turns out it's all a sock monster. The socks, ignorant like the inferior beings they are, believed that escape would result in running freely, covering schlongs, and living the proverbial life. It turns out each postal zip code has a sock monster and he eats them. What a dick.