My Right Foot

I’ve lost my foot before. It never strays far, thankfully, but it’s still annoying when one wakes up from a blissless dream involving Paris Hilton and Bella Abzug and said one finds the aforementioned foot off on its own.

This morning was no different than any other, with a few exceptions. The dream involved George Bush, tomatoes, and Orville Reddenbacher. I’m going to have severe migraines and ear fungus for the next five years after that dream. Anyway, I decided that I needed something much stronger for breakfast than coffee and Cheese Whiz. So I was fixing myself a chocolate milk and bourbon over scrambled eggs when I finally noticed that I was listing rather precariously to the right.

My right foot was gone.

I sighed. This day truly had not started well. The morning paper crashed through my kitchen window and as though I was on automatic pilot I shot the paper boy between the ears. I decided to leave him out for the neighborhood kids to find instead of burying him out back. I had to find my foot.

As I told you earlier, my foot never really traveled far. I found it just down the block trying to dig up the rose bushes in Charly Rome’s garden. My foot is allergic to roses, so this seems to be a usual stop before it gets sidetracked. I grabbed my foot, slapped it against my ankle and began stapling it in place. I used to use PermaGlue, but, as you can see, it wasn’t very permanent. Duct tape usually worked in a pinch, but if I wanted my foot to stay in place for more than 24 hours, staples did the trick. Not very pretty, but I wear black socks.

I know, I know. How can I subject my wandering foot to the confines of socks and shoes. Well, I’m just one of those old fashioned sorts that prefer those sorts of comforts. I suppose next you’ll be criticizing me for my Rosie O’Donnell body parts collection. Well, bugger off!

I have to go to work now that I have my foot back. Haven’t you got something better to do?