MY SHOES AREN'T LONG ENOUGH TO KICK THE SHINS OF THE LORD

When I used to work, we would periodically be visited on the job site by one sort or another of "Bowtie Willie". These were the priviledged and pampered "designers" hired by our super rich clients to tell them what we were doing wrong. These men would expertly balance a cup of tea, with a pastry on a plate and wind their way through a filthy construction site without getting a speck of dust on their thousand dollar suits. They were way more than a cut above the rest of us. We would marvel at their expertise in such matters as wallpaper, vintage toilet bowls, and paint chips. Not to prejudge, but most of them seemed rather gay. In fact almost all of them were married with kids. That's not gay is it?
The one thing they all had in common was the length of their shoes. A shiney wing tip would enter the room a full five minutes before the bowtie appeared. It was uncanny. They seemed to be of a breed that endured some sort of reverse foot binding. I'm sure once they started moving their parent's furniture around and putting posteds on various lampshades with helpful hints on updating the fabric, the folks knew they were special. Go get the toe clamp and stretcher. Little Willie is special.
Not all admired these men. Some on the crew were quite jealous of their talents and the special treatment they would recieve. They felt they could pick a bone white or towel warmer as well as the next guy. Some would even try to put in their two cents on where to hang the Degas or put the tea set. It was always very embarassing when this would happen. Eyes would narrow. Teeth clenched and jaws set, Bowtie Willie would then relax, realizing his obvious powers could incinerate the poor schmuck and graciously thank him for the input. I never said squat. A man must know the length of his shoes.