Written by Ed E. Druckman
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Wednesday, 5 September 2007

(New York--NY) I like feet. No, let me be clear. I like women's feet. No, let me be even more clear: I like women's feet if they're attached to women between the ages of 20-32. Preferably, the feet in question should be a matched set with a pedicure no more than one week old.

Call me shallow, callow, but they have to be pristine feet. And Heather-Mills-Once McCartney, even though she is a looker, amputees are not my shtick. Kudos to you, Paul. I suppose if you pushed me I'd have to say under that no more than one-week-old pedicure no parchment tinged nail should be. I guess that would be a good thing about dating Heather-Mills-Once McCartney. If she does have yellow little piggies, you'd only have to deal with five.

So, you ask: If the feet are toe licking good and that's where the beauty stops, am I only a foot (make that feet) man? You have to ask? Like any delusional man, I want it all. Well, not as long as it all also comes with the feet having an opinion of their own. Hey, at least I have the courage to admit this.

I got to thinking about flip-flops because Summer is now unofficially over, and I'll have to content myself wondering if those dainty peds nesting in Uggs are pedicure perfect. But also, when the Fall comes, I think about September 11th. As you people may or may not know, I write obituaries for The New York Times. That was a rough time for us all. The Times did profiles of every one of the fallen in World Trade Center attack. Doing that research was a heavy burden.

Invariably, Summer's end makes me think of how a woman's desire to be fashionable can not only make her weak but kill her. It distracts her from the threat that's out there. On TV, I remember seeing women drop their heels and just walk barefoot in pantyhose! And you know what? Footman and all, it didn't even arouse me. I just thought how fragile everyone was, men and women, but life and fetishes, or is it feti, go on.

Here we are going on six years later, and I find women's feet hot again, though still not the scenes from that day. It made me think: Is it part of a bigger picture? Have we all gone back to sleep, forsaking surviving for fashion, immediate pleasure for what's eternal…whatever that is?

Throughout the whole Summer, I see women in flip-flops as an erotic, this little piggie smorgasbord. But it never fails, come this time, those flip-flops might as well be a bulls eye on the back of every woman's Juicy butt screen. Here I should stop to remind you that "woman" in my definition is between 20-32, pedicure less than a week old and beauty that goes well north of the ankle. Okay, does that make me a bad person that I really don't care if the non-women to my definition perish? Since I'm a Jew, I don't claim to be a Saint.

Further, I take it to a Darwinian level. The very women who wear those flip-flops that turn me on in a terror attack, because of that foot ware, might not survive. So if I choose to breed, I will have no recourse but to breed with a woman who is more practical with non-hot feet that have their own opinion. How ironic. My own shallowness will bring about my sexual dissatisfaction and ensure the human race continues with strong independent women. Yes, the irony is not lost on me.

In the end, may we all just have comfortable shoes and a little peace or in my case piece. Yes, pun I must.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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