Cobra Boots

I’m never going to start working for anyone ever again but if I did, I’d do it right. This is how.

Before securing my employment, I’d make sure that the company in question held a sort of stump-style introduction/induction ceremony so that I might introduce myself to the company all at once and make my presence known.

At my ceremony (which may not be exclusive to me, but could be held in my honor) there will be coolers of beer and fresh popcorn at the ready. Popcorn isn’t so much a food item as an important olfactory trigger— smell conjures up memories better than any other sense. Popcorn would be convenient for my new audience. Next time they’re at a movie theater about to be entertained they’d think of me.

When the boss finally calls my name to take center stage I’ll put down my third beer and my popcorn and go, “who? Me?” then take the stage. The speech (bullet-pointed in my head) will be a huge hit. I’ll also be wearing something extraordinary. What exactly?

People might take note firstly of my boots, secondly of my hat, and thirdly of my slacks. (It could also be in reverse order). 

My boots: they’re hand-made cowboy boots. The front tips of the boots elongate to form the bodies of two taxidermic king cobras; reared up, hood open, mouths agape, fangs pointed. The hight of the cobra bodies double back up the length of my shins and resolve at my knees. Every step I take produces a squirt of snake juice from the mouth of each snake. Step, squirt, step, squirt. This custom feature will be noticed by my new co-workers as a major expense. They will believe these are the types of purchases I routinely make. 

My hat will garner attention because of how: a) racist it is, b) dangerous it is, and c) something is living in it. It will be a turban-slash-cowboy hat— a wrapped cloth atop a two-foot-wide brim of finely woven cowboy hat material (Straw? Clay? I don’t know what cowboy hats are made of). Peeking out of the folds of the turban portion of the hat will be a large, curved, Ottoman-style blade. Throughout my speech, the turban will move and quack, and, if all goes to plan, the mother duck living in my hat will make a appearance with her four of her ducklings in tow. They will circle the brim of my controversial hat and shock the entire audience into applause.

Lastly, during my introduction to the company, people will notice my pants. They’ll think first: are those pleated khakis? Then they’ll realize that no, those aren’t pleats— the pants are ten sizes too big. The pleats come from the folds of excess cloth pinched together by my crocodile-skin belt. The bottoms of my pants will be tucked into my cobra boots. Whether the boots draw the eye to the pants then the hat, or the hat draws the eye down to the pants then the boots doesn’t matter. The entire picture should stand to overwhelm anyone within eyeshot. 

My speech will be cute, then hilarious, then serious, then hilarious, then cool. Then very funny, then very serious. It’ll be important to end it with a quote or a short anecdote. The only reason the entire thing won’t be 100% hilarious is because this isn’t Friday Night Mic at the Laugh Barn— it’s a workplace and people need to take me seriously.

After my speech I’ll walk back to my place, each step causing my boot cobras to squirt. The people I’m next to will congratulate me on a funny speech and they’ll touch my shoulders. If they ask me a question about my boots I’ll say I ordered them on Zappos.

Then I’ll work there for a year and a half and quit because what the fuck was such an extraordinary guy like me doing there in the first place?