Our Igor

NOTE: I'm doing something really cool right now for the blog, this ain't it thou.

I once got asked the question If I’d rather have my feet cut off or my hands. I can’t remember the context of the conversation, but I can say that amputation is a frequented topic among my friends. Not a whole lot of thought went into my answer “Feet, man fucking, cut em’ off.” My reasoning being that hands are more noticeable part of the body, hand shakes and hugs, high fives and masturbation. “A world with out hands seems like a dark place man, a place I aint trying to go to.” We laughed and talked more about hands and how we’d much rather lose our feet than go through life never holding a hand or running fingers through the hair of a lover or a whore, which ever comes first. The conversation meandered from amputation to insemination, or something else gross. But I dwelled on my feet for a little while, looking down at the beat Nikes that had become my signature shoes. This size 12 had helded me up all my life, and I never thanked them. And here I am, so eager to remove them just so I could get some up, the shirt, under the bra action. If my hands were hedonism my feet were devotion. They are martyrs, willing to be dragged and drowned all the while holding us up like the venerated roots to an ungrateful tree. They are martyrs like Jesus, willing to take to the cross to absolve us. At risk of sounding blasphemous, I’ll even go as far as to say our feet love us more than Jesus. Think about it, Jesus want all that thanks and penance and money feet don’t ask for any of that. It’s like, I get it Jesus, thanks for doing me that favor but you don’t have to bring it up every time we meet thou. (I have a friend, Jonathon, who picked me up from an airport once and every time we see each other he brings it up, that shit was like 2 years ago man.)Our feet are suffocated by boots, constricted to be put in hells, bound and mutilated. Arguably our most valuable exterior body part, we treat them like lepers, leaving in sweaty dens, lumbering around in their own stench as we pummel them. They are our loyal servants, our Igor. Imagine if you will, and uprising of the feet, a subversion, a rebellion. Imagine if our feet suddenly took matters into their own hands. Imagine you are running from a lion in the Serengeti, and your feet, fed up with the abuse choose to stop, you go limp, you fall, and the ravenous beast rips you shreds. Or you are crossing the street, maybe you just got out of class and suddenly get a taste for some delicious Blizzard treats at the local Diary Queen, half way across the street you notice you movements become sluggish, you panic as you watch the incoming traffic barrel your way, you push and push, straining your tendons, but its not use. Your feet feel like lead, immovable and spiteful. A Ford focus, pounds the brakes but its too late, the impact catapults you 20 feet in the air you fly and crash onto the asphalt, dead as hell. Thank your feet people, they are the real heroes.