Last week my dad had surgery on his ugly-ass foot with his wigged out, curly toes in order to fix his bunion. Because he is a 90-year-old resentful, bitter, washer woman. With hideous feet. And curly toes. And veins, oh my sweet God, the veins.
They also removed the shattered remains of a bone he demolished almost 30 years ago, but that is neither here nor there. (But it is a lesson to you youngin's out there to NOT jump from first story roofs "all the time" lest your feet look my dad's. Let me assure you, if your feet look like my dad's you will scare small children and make them cry. And if your feet look like my dad's you will also never get into my pants because ewewewewew. If I seriously SHUDDER every freaking time you unfurl your toes, I will lose all interest in the rest of your body.)
He's being a rather brave chap about it all despite the pain and the swelling and the infection that he swears to my mother will turn gangrenous, and, ever the glutton for attention, after exhausting that topic of conversation he felt the need to point out the pain in his elbow:
Mom: "You know what would fix that?"
Dad: "Ice cream?"
Me: "Sex?"
Dad: "Yeah! Well, no. I have a tendency to flex my toes."
Me: ((Gagging, sputtering noises)) "Ew. Ew."
Dad: "I mean, I've certainly thought about it but that would hurt VERY much."
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1 comment:
Oh dear. I feel a little uncomfortable all of a sudden.
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