I'm pretty careful when it comes to my socks. certain philosophers (Emilio Estevez in St. Elmo's Fire, for example) have speculated as to why socks so often get lost whenever people do laundry, but - until recently - that had never happened to me. in the span of fifteen years, i never lost a single sock. but then i lost a sock in April of 2006. and then another a couple weeks later, and then a third yesterday. and it slowly dawned on me that something was afoot. "what in the name of Andrew W.K. is going on?" i asked aloud while sorting my freshly launderd garments. why were my socks suddenly disappearing like Chinese Panda bears? what had changed?
the answer: Mr. Smokey.
it occured to me that the only aspect of my laundering that had changed in recent weeks was my newfound affinity for petting a feline of unknown origin. within my tiny laundry area is a door leading to the outside. lately, that door has remained opened so as to cool down the house due to the heat. so as i briefly cycle the laundry i encounter a large grey cat that i like to call "Mr. Smokey." dispite our initial differences, i struck up an amicable relationship with Mr. Smokey; whenever i saw him, i would scratch his kitty ears and his kitty tummy, much to his kitty delight.
or so it seemed.
evidence began to mount that Mr. Smokey was using this weekly exchange as a diversion to steal my socks, one at a time. it's still not clear why he wanted my socks, since it has always been my assumption that kittens wanted mittens (in order to aquire pie).
However, there was no other explaination for these disappearences. in fact, i have reason to believe that there was a whole network of cats involved in this: perhaps Mr. Smokey stole my attention while a second cat (or cats) pounced into my laundry basket, snaring the best available footwear and fleeing into the darkness. i'm convinced an even larger cat ("Mr. Orange") from a neighboring building was part of this conspiracy. "how often i have said," asked coke-addict Sherlock Holmes in The Sighn of Four, "that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?" This is true; I am nothing if not logical.

Mr. Smokey must die.