Musings of a Sandal-Maker
I buy the best rice-paper in the world—Red Star Shuen from China. Then I paint on the wrapping paper of the parcel; because I’m a burly-headed, penny-pinching gudgeon. The painting method used here consists of random accidents.
Since I couldn’t bring myself to pay real money for real shoes, I hiked the Himalayas in a pair of huaraches made by a hasty-witted hugger-mugger in Afghanistan. Custom made, they only cost two dollars; but for that they would break down, at least, once a day. No problem; every village has a sandal maker who lives in an abandoned crate on Main Street. By watching the repair every day, I became so good, that I could sit down in the crate on Main Street and do the job myself.
By the time I got to India, my footwear had become indestructible—
and was promptly stolen, while I was saying hello to God in a temple.
Whoever has put himself into my shoes is hereby encouraged to mail the precious items to me for a tune up. No questions asked.
All my work is guaranteed.