DAY 1: 

9:45 AM: I have begun the experiment by injecting the Vocalization Serum (2 parts sentientium, 3 parts oxygen, 1 part radium, 4 parts liquid smoke, and a dash of Retsin) into my favorite pair of black rubber galoshes, near the big toe of the left galosh. Why galoshes? Mainly due to the fact that they are 100% rubber, with no additional components to affect the serum, but also because they are my most prized possession. They once belonged to my esteemed colleague, Dr. Edgar Euphonium, until he left them here some years ago. Hopefully, he won’t be requesting them back anytime soon.

10:30 AM: No sound from the galoshes yet.

11:17 AM: No sound from the galoshes yet.

11:45 AM: No sound from the galoshes yet.

12:10 PM: Heard an unusual gurgling noise that I could not place, but thorough investigation revealed it to not be the galoshes, but my own stomach.

12:11 PM: Lunch.

1:20 PM: Success! The galoshes speak! Sure, at the moment it’s only nonsense baby-talk such as “broo-broo!” and “Sweeeeeeeeeeeee!” but they’re mostly definitely able to talk. Perhaps if I try to teach them Basic English they’ll eventually catch on. Language barrier I hadn’t considered: galoshes made in Guam. I hope my two-and-a-half years of High School Spanish will suffice.

1:25 PM: Astounding progress! The galoshes can now read and speak at a 10th- Grade level (English as well, fortunately for me) and their voice is so deep, soothing and assuring (and the serum is masculine, apparently) I find myself enraptured by their tales, though they primarily revolve around the interior of my front closet.

2:25 PM: The galoshes have begun to sing, and it is a truly mellifluous croon. Who knew such a velvety voice could emerge from boots made entirely of rubber? And how do the galoshes know the entire songbook of Irving Berlin? Is this a common genetic trait found in the DNA of all footwear? So many questions and so little motivation. This music just makes me want to sip fizzy beverages under a chandelier. No matter, I must share these recordings with my colleagues and maybe a record label.


9:55 AM: My fellow scientists scoff at my discoveries and claim there is no earthly purpose for verbal footwear, even if they do have perfect pitch, but the six-album 45-day tour contract from Insoul Records says otherwise. The galoshes enter the studio this afternoon and have already struck up a songwriting partnership with a pianist named Bernard. Blue skies! My creation will soon be on the map. Then we’ll see who scoffs in the name of science.

2:43 PM: I fear all the whirlwind excitement of the last 2 days has already gone to my galoshes’ head, as it were. They already have an agent and manager, and A&R guy (whatever that means), a rider for the upcoming tour and a ghostwritten autobiography in the works entitled, A Shoe-In for Stardom which I’m fairly certain I’m not mentioned in once. As for the recording session, I would love to report it was a success but I honestly have no idea, as I was unable to attend, seeing as how I wasn’t “on the list.” No matter. The album drops a week from Tuesday and the concert kicking off the tour is tomorrow night at the hippest club in town, The Blind Poet. I shall be intrigued as to the galoshes stage presence and how they compose themselves backstage. I know I’m nervous enough for the three of us.


10:22 AM: The big night is almost upon us and the excitement is palpable. The tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife- a Swiss Army knife! We are all anxiously awaiting the concert (I say all, as the galoshes now have an entourage of six men who seemed to appear out of nowhere and laugh at all of the galoshes’ jokes, but keep requesting sandwiches and iced tea from me and calling me sweetheart and doll face and sweet face and doll sweet and heart face.) It’s all very exciting and joyful and just a little bit annoying, since the galoshes keep doing repetitive vocal exercises.

11:40 PM: I am of two minds regarding the concert. On the one hand, the galoshes brought the house down, delivered four encores and had an easy and oftentimes hilarious rapport with Bernard who accompanied them on the piano. They sang many classic standards, as well as a handful of new compositions, like Your Name is on My Tongues, I Feel Like a Heel, and Don’t Be Creeped Out (These Boots Aren’t Christopher Walken.) The ladies all swooned as the galoshes crooned, and at the end of the night they all threw their socks on the stage. On the other hand, I have effectively been cut off from communicating with my galoshes. Not only was I barred from going backstage, I had to pay to get in, full price, and when I explained to the other ladies the galoshes belonged to me, they laughed and said they would never be seen with someone so frumpy. And I was wearing my designer lab coat and goggles!

At any rate, my conclusions are that Experiment 751 was a qualified success. The only lesson I would derive from it is to draw up a contract giving yourself as the creator a percentage of the royalties on the back-end. For now, I am moving on, thinking only of the future. Perhaps Experiment 752, in which I inject my gingham dress with a Prizefighter serum, will fare better. Only time will tell.



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