Feet, watches and ice-cream

One day I was walking down the street. I knew I was walking down the street and not up, because my feet were pushing slightly backwards as if they didn’t want to go where I was going. I said to them, “Come on, you like ice-cream, don't you?”
No response. We had a fight the other night, over toe-rings of all things. I just don’t want my feet to wear jewelry. Is that so “tyrannical”? They’re too young for that right now. I mean, what’s next? Nail-polish? Start with the jewelry now and in a couple of years horny teenage boys will be banging my feet, using a slutty ankle-bracelet for leverage. And who wants their toes sucked by a pimply little bastard who’s gonna get them pregnant and disappear the day after? And what about the newly-born baby foot? Who’s gonna take care of it? ME, of course. (They don’t even walk the dog anymore. So I just sit there and drink beer. What can I do? Dog be damned. “Please, Daddy, please,” they begged. “We promise we’ll take care of it, feed it, walk it, clean after it”. Yeah, right.) So I said, “No toe-rings”. And now everywhere I go: blisters and resistance. I can’t even jog anymore. My feet don’t want me to be an athlete for some reason.

So I was walking reluctantly down the street and I heard this Psst.
“Psst. Hey buddy. Over here.”
“What’s the matter,” I asked the tall man wearing a grey raincoat, a grey hat and sunglasses.
“What’s the time?” he enquired.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I’m more late than I should be. Teenage feet.”
“How can you not know what time it is?”
“I just don’t. You don’t know either.”
“Yeah, but I care enough to ask around. I’m concerned. I worry,” he said. “You can’t just go running around not knowing what time it is. As if you don’t have a care in the world. Are you better than the rest of us? Huh? Is that it? Ooooh, look at Mr. Bigshot. Doesn’t care about time. He’s beyond time. Mr. Poem… Don’t you want to be a valued member of our society, man? To mean something in the world?”
“I guess so,” I hesitated.
“Well, you’re in luck,” he smiled and opened his raincoat, which was lined with dozens of sparkling watches.
“Oh, I see what this is,” I said. “But, why are you naked?”
“Extra space.”
He had five watches strapped around his balls and erection.
“Are these for sale? The ones with the jewels,” I asked, pointing to the five ones.
“No, no. These were a gift from my family. Hehe, get it? ”
“Yeah, yeah. So you really don’t need to be naked, do you?”
“No.”
“…”
“…”
“So, what time is it?” I ask. “I feel this urge to know now.”
“Don’t know. One of all these must be correct,” he replies, his hands demonstrating the elaborate watch-collection.
“You mean even if I bought a watch, I would still need someone who has a watch to tell me what time it is?”
“Pretty much.”
“So why buy a watch if I can find someone to ask in the first place?”
“...”
“Daddy, come ooooon!” my Feet complained.
“Because these are magic watches,” he said finally. “They can stop time.”
“What good will that do me?”
“Errr… how about this? Say, you had a ‘funny’ idea about treating your feet as your teenage daughters giving you grief, and then you realize that the joke is over and you had to manufacture a stupid dialogue with a naked watch-salesman that leads nowhere.”
“Hahaha, as if,” I mocked. “But go on.”
“With this watch you can stop time until you think of something funny.”
“Oh my god! That’s AWESOME!” I screamed, totally out of proportion, people were looking. Then I wispered: “That’s exactly what this story needs. Are you sure this will work?”
“Positive.”
And I dropped a shitload of cash into this guy’s open palm and he handed me one.
“So how does this work?” I asked.
“Oh, you just pull out that little knob on the side, and time stops.”
I pull out the knob and turn around to check if it worked.
“It doesn’t work,” I complained. “People can still read this shit.”
“Nice doing business with you, sucker! HAAAHAHAHAHA.”
“Goddamn it.”
“You just paid me to flash you, you moron. And you know what the sad part is? Even though I exist only in your head, you still imagined me naked, with a boner. With watches around my balls. How sick is that?”
“Hahaha, Daddy you’re so stupid,” my Feet joined in. “So anyway, can we get that ice-cream now?”
“Hey, you know what?” I said dismissively, “I don't feel like stepping on ice-cream right now”. But sadly, I did.

 

the end,

 

p.s. On the way home, my Feet had some dog-poop too.