“Sure, I have nice shoes. They’re in my closet, collecting a patina of dust. My shoes were made for dancing, and that’s why they’re dusty, because my feet, unfortunately, were not made for dancing. My feet were made for making wine, and that’s why my walk is intoxicating.”

“Dancing? Not only do I have two left feet, but they’re different sizes. And I don’t put them in shoes—I store them in glass jars in my basement.”

“If you were to ask me what’s under my bed, I’d tell you shoes. They’re brown, and they’re still attached to the body that’s been decomposing there since I hid it three days ago.”

“I took my shoes for a walk. They’re furry and they bark.”

“My shoes were all muddy, so before I walked in my friend's house I sprinkled grass clippings all over my feet and said, “Excuse the mess—I just stepped in real estate.” While the value of my words wasn’t like 2007 prices, it was still worth enough for him to let me in without making me take off my shoes.”

“In my closet I have boxes and boxes of secrets. These boxes are all empty, and that’s how you know they’re filled with secrets.”

“My shoes are scuffed and dirty from dancing. The grave of my enemy is where I go to find my inner Astaire.”