I plead with you to make it stop. I hold my breath until my face turns blue to no avail. Without looking back I run to the window, gasping, and I tearfully hoist myself onto the edge of the windowsill. The reverberations of my final shriek of terror echo through the streets of West Philadelphia as I plunge to my death.
I don't like your feet.
Tucked inside dirty socks with the absorption capacity of the average sandwich baggie, they simmer in your sweat for the entire day and most of the night. That you dare unleash them ever, much less in my company, should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.
Tucked inside dirty socks with the absorption capacity of the average sandwich baggie, they simmer in your sweat for the entire day and most of the night. That you dare unleash them ever, much less in my company, should be outlawed under the terms of the Geneva Convention.
I hate your feet more than I hate "A Prairie Home Companion." I would rather shove my right arm into an active garbage disposal than be subjected to crimes against humanity like “Guy Noir” but I would relocate to Lake Woebegone to escape the ineffable tyranny of your feet. Their stink, so foul and pungent, seems to carry its own primal scream. They are purple and weird and hairy and bony in ways that no part of any living human should be.
They are the children of Satan.
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