Once upon a time in the Land of Faraway, there lived a Poor Little King.
He rarely complained about his poor little state, which made him all the more pitiful. Silently he toiled in earnest at the direction of the Gentle if Easily Distracted and Often Clueless/Self-absorbed Queen. He fetched and carried large loads of heavy wood with which to heat the castle. He took away the evil white death when it fell from the sky so that the Queen could more effectively feed her small flock of chickens, or walk her dogs, or get to her car. In the summer he weeded and hoed and picked cotton until...(Oh wait. Wrong story. No cotton. But yes on weeding and hoeing.) He built fences to keep out the Antlered Rats. He prepared gourmet meals for the Queen as she sat nearby engaging in an activity she insisted was "work". He was, in general, the perfect King. Sometimes unappreciated, always uncompensated, but deeply loved and for some strange reason deeply committed to the nutty little Queen he'd attached himself to.
The Queen had an unusual job. She wrote knitting patterns, and books about this crazy technique called 2-at-a-Time Socks. This meant that she devoted a lot of her time to yarn and needles in the pursuit of (relative) fame and (even more relative) fortune. Items fell from her needles like raindrops from the sky, one after the other, all useful things like hats and sweaters and mittens and very often socks.
Lots of people reaped the benefits of her skills. Magazine buyers. Book buyers. And Knitters. But the Poor Little King got nothing, or so it often seemed. Neglected and forgotten was he. Not his infamous Norwegian pullover (Dale of Norway #121 Finnskogen, in progress since 2005), nor his hastily designed and knitted up zip front cardigan (circa 2007 or so, still lacking the zip), not even socks for the soles of his poor little feet (except the four or five pair in the drawer upstairs, or maybe they were in the washer...but I digress).
Now it happened that one evening while resting in the Room of Living and watching a DVD with the Queen, the Poor Little King slipped off his shoes in order to enhance the R&R experience. He'd spent yet another long day toiling on behalf of her highness while she was off galavanting with knitters; he'd replaced a broken faucet, swept her side of the garage (the one with the door that opens at the touch of a button - he has to open his by hand, poor thing), filled the dogs' water bowl, took steak out of the freezer for dinner, that sort of thing. As the cat, the dreaded Mel (aka Mervin the Destroyer, Dr. Drool and AARRG! You Miserable Animal Would You Just Shut Up), jumped into the Poor Little King's lap, the queen turned her head and saw...
It is, perhaps, too painful to relate. Too horrible for words. I cannot speak it without a tremble:HOLES. Not one. Not two. But a million holes. And not in a nice hand knit sock either (which is good for the little king, because if he gets a hole in those and fails to report it, well, there could be trouble). In hideous orlon, nylon, acrylic, some gross plastic MACHINE knit socks!
The Queen hung her head in shame. Sorrow filled her little self-absorbed heart when she saw the ragged holes in the crappy store-bought socks, and she swore that in the future she would do better by her beloved Poor Little King who sacrificed s..o...mu...c.h... Wait a second.
Does anyone else feel like maybe I've been set up here? On reviewing pictures I see holey socks not one evening but two evenings, in a row. Two evenings in which the "poor" little king "accidentally" placed a foot covered in a holey sock directly within my line of vision then did something with the cat that caught my attention and caused me to raise my camera. Regardless. Obviously someone around here needs new socks. And since it isn't me, my guess is it's him. Back to the tale.
The Queen ran to her office/yarn room and dug out a huge pile of potentially appropriate sock yarn in colors that she'd specially selected so as not to offend the sensibilities of the king who, when it came to color, could be (and I am putting it mildly) a bit of a snot. The King chose two from the giant stack (Two!? From a whole stack. Two.); Socks That Rock in Ravenscroft that he thinks "...is too dark but might do" (Knitters, if you want to explain to him about STR, feel free. I don't care if it's neon pink with puce and fuchsia spots. Wear it and be happy, foolish man) and Misty Mountain Farm Jubilee Sandy Foam. (If you know how many skeins, hanks and balls of yarn I have brought home truly believing he would like them only to be rejected, it would make your head swim. Favorite colorways include and are pretty limited to: Schaefer Dian Fossey and Lorna's Laces Camouflage. The yarn can be made out of anything as long as it's those colors)
The Queen made the hanks into balls ready to knit socks for the Poor Little King, 2-at-a-Time, of course. Just as soon as she finishes the rug for Kathy. Oh and a sweater for Barb and socks for Rue and socks for Schaefer and socks for Kathy and...well. Eventually, you know. Like that Norwegian pullover.
After the crisis of the socks was resolved, Mel decided he wanted to be yarn. And not just any yarn, mind you. He wants to be Berkshire Bulky.A new colorway he'd like called "Mervin the Destroyer", although he'll settle for "Mel". When I told him I did not think Kathy was going to name yarn after "a dumb cat", he swore, and pulled off his ball band in disgust.Maybe I could have chosen my words better. But really. Who names yarn after a cat? Good thing he's an indoor cat, or we'd have to warn Kathy to keep her doors and windows locked extra tight.
Poor Little King Sock Saga to be continued...stay tuned!