This shit has gone on wayyy too long. I played it cool, but I finally reached my breaking point thanks to all this treasonous bullshit. Editors have been talking mad reckless like they actually know what's hot in the streets. It would have been totally fine if you guys had kept playing "menswear" in your little fantasy land by yourselves, but then you went and made things personal. If you fire shots across my bow expect some to be returned. I'm Black Square-Toed Shoes and I'm here to fuck shit up.
First off, some shout outs.
Shout out to GQ, you fucking tool bitches. And fuck you too, Esquire. And don't even think I'm going to take the time to name check the rest of you dicks in the circle jerk. You've been printing slander since jump street. "Say No to Square Toed Shoes." "Upgrade Your Shoe Game." "New Study Links Black Square-Toed Shoes With Asperger's." You asswipes need a new hobby.
See, black goes with everything. I'm sleek and sexy at night. I’m flossy and glossy in daylight. Semi-formal? Formal? I do it all, 365 days a year. Have you ever met a motherfucker as timeless as me? I'm the obsidian foundation for your murdered out lifestyle.
My shape? You got beef? You prefer the natural form of a cap toe or a brogue? Something that looks like there could be a human foot inside? Fuck outta here, man. Humans are weak. Evolution is about to kick you in the face. I make it look like you got robot feet. How ill is that? The six million dollar man just got a little richer.
Just know that while you’re up on your high horse waxing poetic on some peasant booties, I'm lying on the ground next to your girl's bed.
Time for a roll call to see who actually rocks the Topsiders and pennies you bitches keep on yapping about. A dude lost in an Urban Outfitters and a 37-year-old divorced father of two? Yup, that pretty much covers it. Let's see who’s slipping their dogs into me. Presidents? Check. CEOs? Natchdaddy. Magicians? Obvacado.
I've been places your pale ass bucks couldn't even dream of. Have you ever felt a pile of gold beneath your feet? Seriously, have you ever stood atop a mountain made up of only money? Like, there is nothing in this giant heap that isn’t pure fucking currency. Again, like a haystack, but it’s all money. That shit is life-altering. How about the white sand of some exotic island locale? The kind of place where dime pieces make you a daiquiri with their titties out. This one time I stepped on the face of a servant who forgot to bring the good China. I felt bad about it for a second until I remembered that these soles are non-marking.
Enjoy your cheap shots while you can. Get it out of your system. Just know that while you’re up on your high horse waxing poetic on some peasant booties, I'm lying on the ground next to your girl's bed. I’m hitting up the mall for a jet ski. I'm in the club getting bottle service on a motherfucking Tuesday. I'm Black Square-Toed Shoes and I run shit.