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National Editorials & Columns

This little piggy cried all the way home

There is nothing I love more about spring and summer than shedding my shoes and socks and roughing it old school with bare feet. When it comes to my 10 tootsies I am an exhibitionist, but my love for bare skin stops at the ankles. I’m not some weird pervert who gets his jollies off by strolling here and there in my underwear.

And besides, even if I were, I wouldn’t be telling you about it.

From the months of April through Halloween (at least I think Halloween is a month), I will be barefoot. I love how not wearing sneakers and socks feels, and the slap of my fleshy soles on black top is music to my ears. In this present economical climate in America, I also love how being barefoot is more than financially feasible as it relates to my own wealth, or lack thereof.

Over the years of being barefoot, the soles of my feet have been reduced to the hardness of fiberglass. This evolutionary adaptation gives me the supernatural ability of being able to run shoeless down a long gravel driveway.

When I’m not trespassing and running over sharpened driveway rocks, I enjoy performing other activities while barefoot, including mowing the lawn and testing the limitations of “No Shoes, No Shirt, No Service” policies at nearby convenience stores. One of these days those cash-register-humping Nazis will start listening to reason, or I’ll die trying.

I get my feet ready for warm weather the way bikini babes work on their tans. Feet preparation for me begins in January with my annual toenail trimming. I use the word trimming in the nicest sense of the word because my toenails are beyond the point of trimming. There is only so much nail thickness and length that the normal household toenail clippers can handle. My friends and family don’t call me “Tiger Toes” on account of my good grooming habits after all. I can’t blame them. My nails are usually longer than the toenail beds they awkwardly protrude from.

Another weird thing about my feet is how repulsive they are. My feet are huge and nauseating. My feet would best that of even the Elephant Man in an Ugly Feet Contest.

One of the grossest things about my feet is how much hair is growing on my big toes, and just my big toes. I have more hair on my two big toes than I have been able to grow on my face since high school graduation. It’s like when puberty hit it started in my feet and then it said, “You know what, I’m done. This is all of the natural body hair I’m giving you. Good luck, idiot.”

I also suffer from a foot disease called Morton’s Toe, which is when a person’s second toe is longer than their big toe. In other words, the piggy that goes to market is shorter than the piggy that stays home. People call me a freak when they notice my elongated toe.

“In some cultures (specifically the ones I make up to suit my own needs to make up for my own body imperfections) a long second toe is a sign of a person who possesses sheer genius, rugged good looks and charming personality,” I tell people, just before I kick them in the face flat-footed style for making fun of my feet.

My little toe on my left foot is crooked and looks like the letter C. I think I broke it several years ago in a gravel-driveway-related incident. I never went to the doctor for it because I didn’t think it was a big deal. Obviously it was, and now I imagine I am well beyond the threshold of any medical science, unless there have been incredible advancements in toe-straightening technology in recent years.

So I look forward to all of the grand barefoot weather ahead. I hope I can get my feet physique under control in time for April and give myself a pedicure.

And that reminds me. Where did I last place my blowtorch and electric sander?

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