Onomatopoeia (on-o-mat-o-pee’-a): Using or inventing a word whose sound imitates that which it names (the union of phonetics and semantics).
My flip-flops were driving me crazy. Everywhere I went, “flip flop, flip flop, flip-flop.” Who the hell invented these goddamn fu*kin’ things? I Googled it—the answer was vague. It mentioned Asbury Park, New Jersey, but no names. I was about to burn my flip-flops when I got an idea! I bet there are millions of people who would want to read a book about the inventor and history of the flip-flop. So, I quit my job, said goodbye to my wife and kids, cleaned out my bank account, and headed for Asbury Park.
I drove all night and got there at dawn. I looked out over the ocean, and then, checked into a low budget motel—“Wicked Waves.” It didn’t have a lobby; just a drive-thru window with bars. The desk clerk pointed a .45 at me and asked how long I was staying. I said I didn’t know and he said, “Ok, give me 75 in cash, now! Hand it over!”
I paid and went to my room—Room 13. The door squeaked like a mouse being strangled. There was a neatly folded inflatable sex doll on my bed with a sticky note on it that said “1 hour for $5 see proprietor for inflation and to pay.” I pushed her onto the floor and laid down. The mattress had the consistency of a ripe banana—nice and mushy—I would sleep well tonight.
Time to get to work. I had brought a cardboard sign that said “Tell me about your flip-flops.” I pulled it out of my bag and headed for the boardwalk.
It was a beautiful summer Saturday and the boardwalk was packed. I took up a position near the merry-go-round and held my sign up over my head. I stood there nearly all day. No luck. Nobody even looked at me.
I walked back to “Wicked Waves” and there was a guy, who must’ve been 80 or 90, sitting on the sidewalk outside his room in one of those old-time metal lawn chairs. It was rusted and old like him. He was shirtless and there was a faded tattoo of a flip-flop on his wrinkled old chest. I held my sign up in his face and it was like he turned 30 years younger.
His blue eyes sparkled as he said slowly, “I invented the flip-flop, Sonny.”
I flipped out. If it was true, I was the luckiest man alive.i said, tell me your story—pleaaaaaase!” He began:
“It was 1959 and I had just graduated from high school. I was in a rock band called “The Beach Fellows.” We sang music about looking for beach glass, seaweed, slippery rocks, starfish and seashells—mostly clam shells. We were going nowhere. So we got a manager. He changed our name to “Vinnie and the Hula Hoops.” We had a hit song “Watermelon Waterfall.” Our manager put us on tour and our first gig was here at Asbury Park—my home town—I, Brad Steelsprng—was about to make it big!
The night of our gig, I could not find my shoes. I was desperate. I took the rubber floor-mat out of the shower, and traced my feet on it with the pen by my bed. I used my Swiss Army knife to cut out my footprints, I tore my sheet into strips, poked a hole in each of my cut outs between my big toe and pointer toe and on each side of my foot, and threaded the sheet through the mat’s holes. I put them on my feet and walked across my room, and they made the signature flip-flop sound. Flip-flops were born!
After our gig I went back to my room. I found my shoes and threw my ‘flip-flops’ in the trashcan outside my door. Later that night I heard a noise. I looked. There was an Asian man rummaging through my trashcan. He found my flip-flops and ran away. Six months later, I saw a rubber version of my flip-flops on sale at the drugstore near the beach. They were actually called ‘flip-flops’ and they were made in Japan. My invention!”
“What happened next?” I asked.
“I receive a small royalty check each month,” he replied.
It had to be bullshit—it was all fake, like the tatoo on the old man’s chest. Royalty checks! Bullshit! I packed my stuff and left. My project was dead. I drove back home. Some named Hal had moved in to “help out” my wife.
Two months later, I received a package from Japan with a pair of gold-plated flip-flops inside. There was a note that said: “It is all true,”
I headed back to Asbury Park the next morning to get more details from Brad—my book project was back up and running! I even had a working title: “Flip-Flops: Footwear of a Generation.”
The Daily Trope 