My father’s white trainers.

Last weekend, my dad decided to wear his new white sneakers. This was misguided for many reasons. For one, we were going to a muddy football field. For two, he is not a nurse.

Inevitably, my dad and his weeboks were the talk of the field. They were the orthopedic equivalent of the fat hooligans who paint their bellies and cheer their teams in sub-arctic temperatures. Alas, the whiteys had the opposite effect.

While my nephew and his team did win the game, there came a moment when he was tackled mid-field, blinded by the shimmery size 8’s.

I can’t hate my dad for wearing white Jane Fonda-cizers, but I can hate the motherfucker who sold them to him. I hope to god, it was a woman in a low-cut blouse. Otherwise, my dad may have gay feet.

Come to think of it, I can trace my father's shoewear de-volution over the years. It hit mid-50-ish, when he started wearing comfort shoes. Rockports, Eccos, etc. Then he graduated to more AARP-favorites, the Florsheims, the fucking brand with the air in the shoe. And it's culminated in the virginal sneakers he sported last week.

Then again, he may have also watched some rap videos and thought, "Hey, they leave the tags on their ballcaps...I know, let me wear the whitest sneakers in history."

I need to get him to rock them shits with fat laces.

In his defense, if there is a footwear heaven, pop's has got two feet firmly planted in the fucker.

DIMELO!