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Showing posts with label feet. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feet. Show all posts
Saturday, August 30, 2014
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Eat me I'm a danish
I apologize in advance.
Back in college, the young dandies and I used to play this song at an unnerving volume whilst singing along. Whenever the lyrics chimed "Rock me Amadeus," however, we would instead sing, "Eat me I'm a danish."
Back in college, the young dandies and I used to play this song at an unnerving volume whilst singing along. Whenever the lyrics chimed "Rock me Amadeus," however, we would instead sing, "Eat me I'm a danish."
ooh! Eat me I'm a danish.
ooh! Eat me I'm a danish.
ooh! Eat me I'm a danish.
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Monday, August 31, 2009
A mysterious bit of untitled flash fiction
My mother never wore sensible shoes.
Her shoes were magnificent things with high heels: sharp stilettos, storied platforms or stacked leather towers.
She defied the northeast Ohio winters with boots that were designed solely for the purpose of showcasing the calf and foot and had no regard for ice and sleet.
"You have beautiful feet," the men told my mother, although she never wore open-toed shoes or sandals.
"My feet are an illusion," she whispered to me once. "My feet are my secret weapon."
In the evening when we were alone, she would take off her impossible shoes and exhale with relief. Then she would prop her gnarled feet, with their bunions and corns and ingrown toenails, on a satin pillow that was atop the hassock in front of the television.
She had nothing but disdain for house slippers. "They are for matrons and schoolmarms," she would say.
Her toenails were always painted Dreamland Pink.
Her shoes were magnificent things with high heels: sharp stilettos, storied platforms or stacked leather towers.
She defied the northeast Ohio winters with boots that were designed solely for the purpose of showcasing the calf and foot and had no regard for ice and sleet."You have beautiful feet," the men told my mother, although she never wore open-toed shoes or sandals.
"My feet are an illusion," she whispered to me once. "My feet are my secret weapon."
In the evening when we were alone, she would take off her impossible shoes and exhale with relief. Then she would prop her gnarled feet, with their bunions and corns and ingrown toenails, on a satin pillow that was atop the hassock in front of the television.
She had nothing but disdain for house slippers. "They are for matrons and schoolmarms," she would say.
Her toenails were always painted Dreamland Pink.
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Thursday, August 06, 2009
Friday, August 08, 2008
Well hello dolly
Not safe for work. Perhaps not safe for any sort of human consumption, but nonetheless, this is one of the funniest vids I've ever seen.
Friday, May 16, 2008
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