100% Manmade Materials & Gore

When a thong sandal breaks at work, there's little choice but to drag your leg stiffly behind you like the Mummy to keep the thing from falling off. It's either that for the rest of the day, or staple it back together and gimp on over to the locus of inferior vinyl footware (Payless) to buy a pair of gladiator sandals, overcomplicated with too many straps and delicate, microscopic buckles held tenuously together with weak, Chinese-manufactured hydrogen bonds. 

The ones I settled on had shiny silver octogons sewn onto the front - sandals fit for an ostentatious, new-millenium office gladiator, as opposed to the simpler office gladiator of antiquity, whose venerable griping technique about middle management, immortalized in Poetics, remains an integral rhetorical tool for insurance peons everywhere. I ripped the octogons off when I got back to work, managing to de-razzledazzle the sandals, but when I returned to the lunchtime retirement party potluck that was already in progress, Linda over in Underwriting wasn't looking too hot after I wrestled the big tiger on her t-shirt to the floor and jammed my trident into her back.