Scrub My Feet, Bitch

Recently, I got a pedicure. My roommates and friends, upon hearing this, came up with a surprisingly large number of ways to tell me that I’m a homosexual. I would’ve tried to argue with them, but experience has shown this to be a nigh-impossible task. You see, this isn’t the first pedicure I’ve gotten and they’re not the first group of friends to make related claims about where I like to put my penis and where I let other men do the same.

That being said, I’ll use my little corner of the internet here on PIC to maintain my heterosexuality. In fact, I like nothing better than to bury my virile member in the loins of a lust-filled, nubile debutante after she performs the kinds of acts that set the women’s equality movement back several years. Also, on a minor tangent, after writing that last sentence, I immediately regret telling my parents that I write for PIC.

In case you still doubt my proclivity for the pussy, it so happens that this particular pedicure was a gift from my girlfriend, who is probably just as unhappy to read that earlier sentence about nubile girls as my parents. For my birthday she bought me a gift certificate to the American Male Salon and Spa and a bottle of Patron (because I’m stumbling over to her place drunk anyway, and apparently good tequila makes me a better-smelling drunk).

"I shall now pass on to you, how they could have sex with women AND have luscious, baby-soft feet."

Anyway, if you’re not convinced of my heterosexuality by now, email me and we’ll make arrangements for me to prove it (provided you’re not male or so unattractive that a six-pack won’t help). That, however, is not the end of our time together, for I have greater plans for this article (and only 288 words so far). No doubt whatever stigmas you may hold against pedicures remain in your mind, and that’s a damn shame, because you’re missing out on an activity that sits on the Scale of Masculinity somewhere between shotgunning a three-week-old beer and beating a hooker to death with an empty bottle of King Cobra. Also, I hold the only copy of that scale, and no, you can’t see it.

Anyway, back to the point. I used to hold the standard manicure/catcher connection until a couple of the biggest, manliest men I knew told me with no shame that they had just come from getting pedicures. Naturally, I was taken aback, but they gave me many reasons, which I shall now pass on to you, about how they could have sex with women AND have luscious, baby-soft feet.

When I went in for my most recent pedicure, I was greeted by a woman who was seated behind a desk doing the secretarial tasks for which her sex are most naturally suited. She offered me a seat in front of a television playing SportsCenter and fetched me a 7-Up, because to this day I still hear Orlando Jones in my head telling me to make 7-Up mine.

After a while, another woman led me to the back, where she took off my shoes and sat in a massaging chair. I flipped the TV to Gladiator and browsed a Sports Illustrated while she went through standard manicuring procedure. For those of you unfamiliar, this is a series of tasks that you probably couldn’t pay a hooker to do (not that I’ve tried), like removing the dirt from my toenails and scrubbing the calluses on my feet. Hell, whenever I’m praying (generally for a girl either to get or not to get her period immediately, depending on circumstances) I throw out a little mention to the G-man about how appreciative I am that he put those things as far away from my nose as possible. When she was done, I tipped her and drove home, where I absentmindedly stroked my own feet for an hour and a half or so (seriously).