Sod off, Harvey.

There is an age old question that is asked by people all over the world. That question is: "Where do the missing socks go?". It was once thought that they disappeared to a far away land of magic and wonder. A place where unicorns frolic through sugary meadows and Tootsie Rolls grow on trees. Once this sock has gone to this mystical place we must say a little prayer for the one that's left behind because there's only one place for it to go. Sock hell; the garbage can.

side note: I once found a pair of socks trying to escape together in the pouch of a fitted sheet. You know the pouch. It's the thing that tucks around the corners of your mattress and makes it mortally impossible to fold the damn sheet appropriately. (If you can fold those things so that they fit nicely in the closet, you walk among the gods.) But alas, it was not their time to go and I returned them to the drawer which they call home.

At my house, socks don't go to the land of horny horses. No. They find a fate worse than the hell their counterparts must endure. This horrid place these unfortunate souls, I mean socks, find themselves in is none other than the mouth of Harvey. He uses his sharp teeth to tear holes in their delicate little bodies and leaves them in a sopping heap of drool in the backyard to rot a slow and painful death. Dirty, clean; it doesn't matter. Harvey doesn't discriminate.

Who is this Harvey I speak of? It is none other than this beast right here:

That is the face of wasted money. That is the face of cold feet. I have only one thing to say to that face.

Sod off, Harvey.