Recently I saw a sidewalk I really liked, so I walked on it.
Barefoot, it was warm on my feet. I have disturbingly unattractive feet. They’re flat, pale, slightly hairy, odiferous, disproportionately toe-y with triangle-shaped toenails (not exaggerating) to the degree a friend used to announce “Spearfoot Rides Again” upon my entrance to the public pool as a child, the trauma of which may explain why I’m still a weak swimmer.
Unsurprisingly, historically speaking, I was also unpopular at pool parties, rarely achieving a return invite. Which holds true today, now that I think about it.
My current family refers to my feet as “Eagle Talons,” which belies my ability to harpoon fish, game and other proteins in survival situations that require sustenance during a long trek back to civilization.
Which has yet to happen but still it’s a great asset. My feet are assets.
Anyway, I’m trouncing along a nice warm sidewalk, extra-long, pointy nails audibly scratching the pavement with each step like a wiener dog on a wood floor, when I come upon a Dead Thing, which is sort of a buzz kill. The Dead Thing turns out to be some form of desiccated bird, to the extent it looks like a dinosaur fossil, which I guess in a way it technically is.
There is no evidence of foul (groan) play, simply Natural Selection (or perhaps Divine Intervention depending on your point of view) as the deceased critter appears to have arriveth from the sky, likely dropped by a humungous raptor who maybe fought a fierce sky battle with a determined murder of crows over this lunch item, losing it in the heat of evasive maneuvering complete with high G turns until the former potential lunch unceremoniously splatted on this pristine piece of what I think is called landscape architecture. Or perhaps simply city property.
A bunch of bugs and other less majestic creatures are taking care of what remains of the corpse upon my arrival. Not to pick on bugs, but they’re gross. Hopefully you’re not an entomologist.
Several deft, swift toe taps fling the brontosaurus ancestor off my precious path and into some freshly mown grass. I feel better knowing the creature can actually return to earth. And worse that I touched it with my foot, as disgusting as my feet may be.
Here’s where I launch into a heartfelt, spiritual essay about my take on the workings of the cosmos, communing with nature and possibly about how we should combat global warming by not driving cars and using plastic. Agreed – we certainly should not drive cars or use plastic. But really I don’t think I can change how you feel about nature or the fictional world we call “Planet Earth.” I bet you’re touching plastic right now, you bastard. The point is to think about my feet when you go to sleep tonight and thus support your local pedicurist. Sheesh, what’s with you anyway