Dust Mop Slippers

Now that I'm embarrassingly famous, people approach me at random all the time. On the street, at the Tex-Mex joint run by the Asian-Americans, the Hispanic pizzeria, when I'm using a urinal--everywhere. They approach me, humbly. They don't touch me, thank God. But in their little supplicating way, with hope in their eyes and stains on their off-the-rack clothes, they say, "Satorical, I hate cleaning floors." They also say "I hate wearing shoes," or, often as not, "I do not own any shoes," or "I have eaten my shoes."

This is my cue. This my chance to give back to the little people.

"Step back, you are impure," I say. "Please, really, you probably have TB."

Then I say "I know life has treated you poorly. You were not blessed with my good fortune or modesty."

"However," I say, "Your world is about to change," I also say, "for our civilization has reached a pinnacle of achievement with you, yes YOU in mind."

Then I stop speaking in boldface. I tell them about dust mop slippers. How they can get two pair, $6 a pair, and have one pair to use even when the other is in the laundry.

They usually are speechless, which is good--especially when I'm using the urinal. They back away, bowing, but with little bit more dignity, a little bit more joy.

I know that soon, very soon, they too will have clean clean floors.