“A risk of choking has lead to the product recall of children's shoes called Winnie the Pooh Flowers Joggers.”
Sex with squirrels, the world lurches another step closer to handing it it’s parody merit badge and diving headfirst into the muddled metaphor of farce. Shoes prove to be a choking hazard. Shoes. The stupid overpriced label-crazed thingies one crams on one’s feet to stop AIDS-infected needles puncturing your piggies and leaving you a dead pariah in a skip behind a brothel. Or some shit. I don’t know, my mind is on “tilt” over this latest recall. Someone has shaken the pinball table of my mind too much and my balls are now jammed. And worse, in its now damaged state its projecting hallucinatory images of fat parents cramming Winnie the Pooh shoes down their children’s throats to punish them for being too fucking blonde, then screaming blue murder at the retailers as the woggle on the laces broke off on a milk-tooth molar and killed the kid. I want to see an indignant housewife in gingham screaming at Paul Holmes that she was only using reasonable force in the form of kicking the child in the tonsils with his own sneakers but the dastardly tag made them into a murderer aaaaargh sue. Or maybe it’ll be a poverty tale of families who spent all their cash on ciggies and Lotto forced to eat old boots to live and their poor starving little sprog was asphyxiated on some gristly shoelace. Awwwwww, start another freakin’ telethon. In fact, I want to see any indication that a fucking womb-monkey even came close to death as a result of this dangly nothing on his trademarked shoes. I want to be convinced this isn’t anything other than a paranoid overprotective Nanny State beat-up because some arsecandle with desiccated reproductive organs decided do write a letter of complaint in a shrill font. I want to see the blood of the innocent for fuck’s sake…
Ah, sod it. And anyway, here’s a rule of thumb for people with vacant-eyed offspring: If your child decides to try to eat his own footwear and chokes to death as a result, this is a good thing. Shoe-boy was never going to be anything other than a spare-parts organ bank and a dope-smoking pig-rapist anyway. He died from EATING HIS SHOES. Or worse, SOMEONE ELSE’S SHOES. His death is a good thing and we should rejoice over his blue boot-crammed body. REJOICE.
End of public service bewilderment.