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my feet are *special*
Aug. 27th, 2001 12:55 pmYou see, my feet are a very important part of me. They help me get where I am going. Yes, my awesome coding skills and beautiful eyes helped me land my current job, but without my feet, I'd have gone to the interview with my wife (she'd push my wheelchair, since I refuse to get my hands dirty or wear good gloves) and, when the management saw HER, they'd have tossed my resume into the shredder, then immediately incinerated those shreds.
My feet are also incredibly ticklish. This merely shows how sensitive a guy I am. I cry when I'm tickled. I stop breathing. I turn blue. Then I get angry and start pummeling whoever is torturing me.
I keep my toenails long and sharp. It's a great protective asset. With long nails, I can fight like a cat or slash like a raptor. I can also walk on ice without fearing the lack of adequate friction. And opening cans while sitting around a campsite--no need to carry a bulky swiss army knife--my toes are the answer to everything.
Lately, I've been cultivating a thick layer of callus on the soles of my feet. It is my belief that this will (a) aid me in withstanding my tickling tormenters; (b) allow me to walk through acid without damage to the more tender flesh underneath the callus; (c) let me save money by not buying shoes; (d) render me impervious to my wife's cold feet.
My wife is not impressed by my feet. When I'm not looking, she tackles my lower legs, sits on my skins, and files my nails. She attempts to buff my calluses away by lining the shower with sandpaper or pretending that her pumice stone is a new massage device. She thinks she can smooth all my troubles away with her accoutrements of doom. She doesn't understand how much I like my invulnerable adaptations.
And she asks the podiatrist if she can have my toes should he ever have to amputate.
Need I reiterate just how EVIL wife is?
My feet are also incredibly ticklish. This merely shows how sensitive a guy I am. I cry when I'm tickled. I stop breathing. I turn blue. Then I get angry and start pummeling whoever is torturing me.
I keep my toenails long and sharp. It's a great protective asset. With long nails, I can fight like a cat or slash like a raptor. I can also walk on ice without fearing the lack of adequate friction. And opening cans while sitting around a campsite--no need to carry a bulky swiss army knife--my toes are the answer to everything.
Lately, I've been cultivating a thick layer of callus on the soles of my feet. It is my belief that this will (a) aid me in withstanding my tickling tormenters; (b) allow me to walk through acid without damage to the more tender flesh underneath the callus; (c) let me save money by not buying shoes; (d) render me impervious to my wife's cold feet.
My wife is not impressed by my feet. When I'm not looking, she tackles my lower legs, sits on my skins, and files my nails. She attempts to buff my calluses away by lining the shower with sandpaper or pretending that her pumice stone is a new massage device. She thinks she can smooth all my troubles away with her accoutrements of doom. She doesn't understand how much I like my invulnerable adaptations.
And she asks the podiatrist if she can have my toes should he ever have to amputate.
Need I reiterate just how EVIL wife is?
