Recently I killed my black Crocs. Cause of death: scissors. I cut them up in a fancy shoe store, with my daughter, granddaughter and my friend--all shoe lovers--as witnesses. They cheered and high-fived each other. I sobbed (silently, to myself).
But I still have my tan pair. They are--as a blogging friend smirked, "well loved." They are still croc-ing along.
However, I think the tan Crocs are aware of the violent act I committed against their darker friends. Perhaps they were shaking and quaking in their rubberness, afraid I might do the same thing to them? Maybe they let themselves get lured away from the safe confines of my home?
I thought my tan Crocs were secure in my bedroom, until I saw this picture. Lisa Ricard Claro, a writing friend, alerted me to this horrible situation.
A crocodile got my Croc-ie. (Imagine I am Meryl Streep, distraught, in the wilds of Australia, as I say this.)
To see this horrible, gruesome sight, go here. But beware--you might get ill over what you are about to see.
Now, if you survived seeing that, what is the funniest animal story you have to tell? I need to laugh, to recover from that scare.