A warning for people who own Crocs: Those children's sand pails masquerading as footwear love you. Too much. They're lying in wait in the back of your closet listening for the familiar click of your key in the lock so they can run out and attack your feet with their tiny hands and their unrelenting, slobbery kisses. You can try to fight, try to kick them off. But those tiny hands are surprisingly strong, and the rubber sieves that serve as their brains hold only one thought, "FEET!", and no member of the growing army of living Crocs will take no for an answer. 

Great job, Crocs. As if Croslite, the grubby, grabby sentient piece of footwear who also happens to be a foot-fetishist, wasn't creepy enough in still photos.


Where will you be when the Croc d' Etat happens and millions of previously immobile rubber clogs come to life and head straight toward any and all human feet?

One thing's for sure: Mario Batali is probably very, very nervous. It's no wonder he never takes off those bright orange Crocs. He knows that if he relaxes and slips off his Crocs, even for a second, the Crocs will spring into action and retaliate by latching on to his feet with their tiny arms and legs. Batali won't even have time to reach for a crowbar to pry them off before the Crocs, using their advanced knowledge of lethal reflexology,  locate the "Lung" sections of his feet and press their grubby little fists into those sections so hard he stops breathing. Happy with their new kill, Mario Batali's orange Crocs will touch and massage and play with his now cold feet for hours. Once rigor mortis sets in, however, Mario Batali's orange Crocs will set out on their own to hunt for new feet, new victims.