Toe the Line

I dropped the PT Cruiser off at the mechanics yesterday morning. The air conditioning had gone out and here in Florida nothing is more imperative than having operating air conditioning. Without it you might as well be an ant under the shriveling beam of sunlight through a young boy's magnifying glass. So after explaining what I needed done, the guy at the garage told me to have a seat on the sofa and Sam would give me a ride home in about ten minutes. No sooner had I sat my ass down when another man, much fatter than I, sat down next to me. He immediately swung his leg up over his opposite knee, shoving his nasty, smelly, disgusting, flip flop shod foot towards my lap. There is no place outside of the beach or your home where flip flops are acceptable, at least to me. I do not want to see your groaty feet with the yellowed toe nails at the super market, the theater, or at the mechanics. Feet are not pretty. Even when they are clean and devoid of corns, calluses, and the nails are all neatly clipped, I don't want to see them. Very rarely are good looking, flip flopped feet attached to an equally good looking human specimen. In those rare cases, yes, I will not be disgusted. In fact I will admire them. However the man who stuck his foot up in my face yesterday was not one of those people, and I was sure that I detected the aroma of bad Swiss cheese and two day old toe jam wafting through the air.