I Bought $1,100 Gucci Slippers In The Most Patriotic Way Ever

I am a man of high tastes. But I don’t often buy things for myself. I am easily restrained from frivolous purchases due to lessons instilled during my childhood. I was taught the value of a dollar in my youth when I earned exactly that for my chores: $1 per week. My chores included feeding the dogs and keeping the wood pile stocked in winter. We kept the dog food in the garage, and the dog bowls were made of that shiny metal that gets so cold that it sticks to finger webbing like testicles on a chairlift pole. Colder than Jack’s description of Wisconsin’s Lake Wissota, which he used to discourage Rose from suicide as she hung over the stern like a spoiled bitch. With the right blacksmith, one could forge those bowls into a spear for the Night King to fell, then revive, one of Daenery’s dragons. Brrrrrrrrr!

I remember the sting of the wind lashing my smooth, childish cheeks as I shuffled across our driveway, effectively a skating rink from December-March. It only took a moment for my nostril hairs to freeze like prickly cactus thorns inside my nose. On brave days, I would stop to pee in the middle and see if my steaming stream could melt a hole to the gravel below, my penis reduced to a tiny nipple which I struggled to keep outside the folds of my snowpants. But most days, I kept my head down and forged ahead, seeking the relative shelter of the garage. The garage wasn’t heated, of course. Like Amazon, father’s business would not post profits for years yet. But at least it blocked the wind.

As I was saying before my childhood reared its ugly, blue-collar head, I’m austere when it comes to purchases. I maximize my 401K contributions each year to keep my money out of Uncle Sam’s pockets, even though there is zero chance I live to 65. Sure, I’m in phenomenal shape and I eat extremely well, but there are simply too many triggers that send me spiraling towards an early demise at my own hands, making my earlier dig at Rose’s suicidal aspirations quite hypocritical. I spend my money on experiences rather than objects: flights, restaurants, ski passes, etc. I normally stay away from the ornaments worn on the bodies of those who want you to think they’re living. For to me, life is found inside the yurt, at the bottom of a warm mug of cider, after a long day of hunting seals across the ice flows. Life is found among the glowing embers of a dying fire after a game of pond hockey. Life is the warmth of a baby’s breath as you dig it out of the snow drift where it landed when it was thrown from a car window driven by parents too poor to provide for yet another daughter.

The point is, people get cold. And what’s the coldest part of a cold body? The feet. Warm feet are the mark of the wealthy and healthy. These were my guiding principles as a boy, and they blossomed into an irrepressible logic that saw me drooling when I discovered a pair of fur-lined, leather Gucci slippers as an adult, last week. Behold:

At first glance, the embroidered UFO and demonic tiger appear to have little in common. But I’ve always loved space and animals, and this was the first pair of shoes that featured both themes. The golden buckles make it clear to any denizen of the fashion world that these are Gucci slippers, ensuring their exorbitant worth like the clasped hands of Liesl, Friedrich, Louisa, Kurt, and the other Von Trapp children.

Of course, the true value of the slippers is found within, where a frothing forest of fur explodes from toe to heel. It’s like staring into Gandalf’s asshole. Sweet Jesus, look at all that warmth. Imagine walking into your home after a long day at work, kicking off your slushy boots, and sliding your freezing toes into these bad boys as you pour yourself a glass of red wine. Sorry babe, can’t hang tonight: I’ve got bigger plans.

Or this:

“I have to take these off—my feet are sweaty!” I’ll announce, standing up from behind a platter of cheese, surrounded by friends in threadbare socks. It’s my Christmas party but of course I made everyone remove their shoes. I’ve turned on the air-conditioning and cracked the windows behind curtains so people can’t tell. These idiots think I live in these conditions. The truth is, years of feeding dogs in arctic temperatures have adapted my blood to keep my core warm. Typically, my feet would be cold. But I’m wearing my Gucci slippers. Meanwhile, frostbite is setting in among my guests, especially the women, all of whom are hot—not in temperature, in looks. They’re freezing. One of them asks me to turn on the heat. I fetch her coat from the closet and tell her to leave, quietly, so as not to embarrass her. She is not hot in either sense.

I balked at the price. $1,100 for slippers? Surely not. Such an outrageous price tag was antithetical to my down-to-earth rearing. I searched high and low for a pair on sale. From eBay to Chinatown I hunted, willing to sacrifice authenticity for a knockoff pair that looked real enough to fool my party guests. But the slippers were not to be found, fake, used, or otherwise. Gucci had clearly covered their bases.

I waffled in indecision. Colorful UFOs spun through my dreams while satanic tigers crouched behind every street corner. I knew the slippers were likely cobbled by a family of loveless machines in some dirty country. Gucci’s website claims they’re made in Italy, but “Italy” might just be an audaciously-named town in Bangladesh (in Maine, we had towns like Peru, Paris, Oxford, Corinth, Madrid… fucking embarrassing). But I soon reasoned that I wasn’t buying these for their quality; I was buying them for the value they held to others. Everyone knows Gucci. Everyone can google the cost of my slippers. And if they can’t, I’d tell them.

I placed a wooden spoon between my teeth and confirmed my purchase. Expecting an immediate sense of regret, I found only a warm tingle in my toes. Was I imagining things, or were the slippers already working their magic? Impossible. They were on their way to me, but it would take a week.

In truth, I had sent them to the home of a caddie from my golf course who lives in New Jersey. In doing so, I was able to avoid the 9% combined city and state sales tax one pays in New York City. As I mentioned earlier, I hate paying taxes—a bi-product of growing up in a conservative, blue-collar, freezing Maine household. A 9% tax on $1,100 slippers is a significant $99. Who the fuck has $99 to hand to the government these days? Hell, Amazon just announced it would be opening its new headquarters in New York and Virginia, and reports are out that we, the NYC taxpayers, are funding the fucking on-site helipad. Are you out of your mind? IF I HAVE TO WAIT AN EXTRA WEEK FOR MY FURRY GUCCI SLIPPERS BY SENDING THEM TO AN EMPLOYEE OF MY PRIVATE GOLF COURSE IN NEW JERSEY, WHO WILL HAND THEM TO ME ON THE FIRST FUCKING TEE BOX WITH MY 3-WOOD, JUST TO AVOID GIVING THE GOVERNMENT $99 OF MY HARD-EARNED, DOG-BOWL MONEY, SO BE IT.

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Except we ran into a problem. My caddie friend lives in some strange, labyrinthine housing compound, and FedEx required his signature. He wasn’t home, so FedEx sent them back to the Gucci warehouse. Where they sat. On a shelf. Collecting dust. As the frost set in and my feet turned purple.

When you spend $1,100 on slippers, you expect them to be on your feet in the shortest amount of time possible. Gucci had other plans. I called them yesterday. Turns out, their customer service department is comprised of braindead dropouts who abide by the mantra “fuck the customer.” They’re so accustomed to dealing with daughters of Saudi royalty and real housewives of unplanned cum spills that when a hard-working American boy calls, they think it’s a joke.

But I am no joke. I am the United States of Anger. I am the red dust beneath the fingernails of a bricklayer. I am the sweat-darkened rim on the hat of a ranch hand. I am the sleep-deprived lines on the forehead of a mother of eight. I am the split lip of a half-blind bare knuckle boxer. I am Draymond Green calling Kevin Durant a bitch. I am the second amendment.

When I had finished telling “Tiffany” who I was, she said they would send the slippers to my apartment. She did not say that I would have to pay the requisite New York taxes. The slippers should be at my door in a day or two. I will take the package inside, open it with a dull pen like a real man, and slide into the lifestyle of a higher tax bracket without paying for it.

I persevered through the snows of Maine. I worked around the tax laws of New York. I endured the indifference of a Gucci customer service rep. And for all of that, I am getting my Gucci slippers delivered to my home, tax-free.

I am the American dream.