Groan-Uggs-N-Harmony

**HYPOCRITE ALERT**

OK. I know how this is going to sound/look.

So last year, or the year before, whenever Uggs, or what I called "the ugliest shoe I'd ever seen", became popular, I was appalled. Their design, their complete lack of structure, and the fact that most of the people caught wearing them were very likely "assholes", all made me loathe said shearling-lined bootie.

Winters passed, summers came and went. Blizzards, rainstorms, I'd managed to live for months without having any cravings for sticking my foot in a sueded sheep's asshole.

But then. Then I grew up a little bit, and practicality settled in. There I'd be, hoofing it along Madison Avenue, or in Tribeca, or an alley in NoHaBuLooBeHiYouHeHasAGun, in my J. Crew pointy black boots that I dubbed my "Van Helsing" shoe, a boot whose sole is basically a thin sheet of gauze that turns my feet into albino-snowman-like monster-hooves.


Here's the crazy thing: A website actually sells Van Helsing boots! Oh a-ha ha: "These boots are identical to those worn by Gabriel Van Helsing, good guy and enemy of evil the world over. Silver Alpalca tips and heel plates are not included but can be added for an additional $40." Here's a "silver tip" for nothing: If you're buying these boots, please, just kill yourself.

My friend Lang recently extolled the virtues of her Uggs, how she stole them from her mother and basically hasn't taken them off for the past 14 months. And still, I scoffed. "They look cute on your little feet, Lang... but I might as well strap my oversized peds to the backs of two golden retrievers and pray they know the way to the hummus aisle at Gristedes!" I thought to myself while simultaneously drooling onto my chin and throwing up.


My ideal boot.



I was firmly Anti-Ugg. Until yesterday.

Because yesterday is when Ms. Michelle Collins stumbled into a Marshall's in the Bronx and found fake, baby pink Ugg rip-offs, in her size no less, for $8.00. EIGHT DOLLAR$$$$$!!!! She couldn't leave them there because, being a Jew with a knack for buying garbage she doesn't need, she knew she had to have them. (Remember, this third-person thing is referring to me.)



I almost bought it as a joke, a nod to past trends. If slap bracelets and backward, brightly colored jeans were on clearance, surely I would have purchased them too, and then promptly "Jump, Jump"ed. I came home, waved the boots in front of my roomates, and laughed and laughed. Then I went into my room, and like a curious 5 year-old cross-dressing boy desperately staring at his mother's shoes, I slowly lowered one bare-foot into the ha-woolen bootie. Then the other. And that's when it occurred to me:

I am never, ever taking these boots off.

It's true. All the hype! All the rumors! They're all true!


(drooling all over myself)

If my foot were an infant, my fake Uggs would be the finest of baby powders sprinkled in a cashmere lined diaper. If my foot were a steak, my fake Uggs would be a truffle-oil marinade, fried in fresh pig lard, dipped in gold, and served on the face of Candice Bergen. If my foot were an underpaid maid, my fake Uggs would be the affair I had with the man of the house that would ultimately ruin their marriage. In other words, my fake Uggs are the most delicious things my feet have ever known.

But why stop there? If my foot is so happy covered in the skin of a sheep, what about the rest of my body?


See you on the streets, New York!!


Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to drink some Alpaca-urine out of this fur-lined tea set.