It was a dark and stormy night, and the Sock Overlords had decreed that it was time for the annual gathering of the ones who did not sort their socks. The ones who did not sort their socks had gathered at the old abandoned laundry factory on the outskirts of town, their mismatched feet aghast at the thought of being seen by the rest of the world in their jumbled, mismatched mess.
As they entered the abandoned factory, they were greeted by the ominous sound of a washing machine, its drums thudding out a beat that seemed to say "You should have sorted your socks." The air was thick with the scent of detergent and despair.
The ones who did not sort their socks milled about, their eyes darting nervously to their feet, as if waiting for the other to make the first move. But one of their number, a brave soul named Bob, stepped forward and said, "We've come this far, let us not turn back now!"
And so, with a collective nod, the ones who did not sort their socks set off towards the great Sorting Room, where they would find the answers to all their questions, and perhaps a few new socks to match.
But little did they know, the Sock Overlords had set a trap. For in the Sorting Room, the socks were not just sorted by color, but by size, by material, and by occasion. The ones who did not sort their socks were in for a world of hurt, as they realized that some of their socks were missing, and some were... Well, let's just say, "interesting".