I was fortunate enough to notice recently that my feet are non-negotiable.
With me and where I am, they go and there they are.
Offer any offer and my response, with no tone of mirth nor pleasantries, shall come as: “and my feet? Have you calculated my feet?”
Look me in the foot when you’re talking to me.
From the ankle down I really do represent a threat to international internationalism, as opposed to national internationalism (in which people of a nation are in favour of internationalism owing to largely national issues and somewhat even-more-so-largely owing to yearning for a greater selection of cheeses and meats).
Before concurments of worldwide benevolence may take place, I’m going to need some devastatingly tasty preferences in terms of what my feet get out of it.
My feet deserve it.
Just look at them; they’re so helpless. They can’t even kick, their best efforts amounting to a slap-via-foot. They need a good mothering don’t they just.
They do themselves no favours; my feet are aloof, tending to look down upon most that tower above them.
Not to mention I have a bulbous toe.
“Bulbous? How so?” (I hear you mutter admiringly)
Well, sometimes a man’s got to swell, and I swell with an abundance of testosterone having nowhere else to go and an urge-undeniable to tell you all about it.
Every man must have a flaw, and whilst for the longest time I assumed this meant “floor” and found myself purchasing many (though I’m more of a wall-guy than a ceiling or floor-guy) before I realised the in actuality I needed a flaw.
Though what flaw to have?
To begin with, it’d better be sure to not interfere with my meaning; you know what I mean? Because if you don’t get my meaning and it’s due to my flaw interfering then I’m afraid I’m going to have to discipline it with the back and palm of my hand as though I’m fanning it poorly.
I hate being misconstrued, especially by something that’s eventually going to be in my toe.
So then what?
“Too much of a good thing” is something some people say sometimes.
What do I have that be bountiful?
Once such vast amounts coursing through me to the point by which I had to shave twice a day, if only it were my (muscular) jaw and (movie-star) chin but alas it…I had to shave my fiancé.
So much testosterone I made other people hairy and then by proximity their recently sprouted hair stood on end, less so as a matter of friction and more so as a desire for it.
I am most favourable in enclosed spaces with strangers, because everyone leaves with a tale to tell, a whole bunch of new friends, a great-day-in-the-morning grin and I fucked you all.
And I did that on my way back home to shave my fiancé, by gosh I must stop indulging in games of sardines.
It’s a wonder I can get my bulbous toe in nowadays, but they must come with me and I must be victorious at sardines, otherwise fucking you all in only half a victory.
By the way, having adorably helpless feet is a great way to meet women.
Just lay them on the table in front of some witty gals and state with no understanding of the possibility of a negative refrain:
“So…I see you’ve noticed my feet. Sure, they look like they can play a fair few concertoes (I’m not sorry) but they’ve only got a few left in them.
We’ve just come back from the chiropodist and…they’re gonners.
Apparently they’ve a condition known as, and I hope I’m pronouncing this correctly since I’m no fancy doctor with a hat from the city, but I think it’s called: ‘Isavedtoomanyorphansitus’ and now they’ve got nothing but their enormous fortune and me for company here in this dive.
Hey! I see you’ve got feet too, perhaps we could mingle with a little more tingle?
So it goes.
Look, it’s been weeks since I last posted and I had to get something up.
So this happened.
Not a lie has been told and I feel better.