Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Pied-ophile, get it?

The summer I turned 17, my friend and I went to France for two weeks. It was really quite hilarious and and an extreme experience. There are too many stories to tell, so let's focus on just one:

Now I do not consider myself a naïve child, and I generally have confidence in my choices even when everybody tells me I am wrong, with a few exceptions; this story being one of them. 

I was in a nice park by the Louvre, sitting down a blanket, while my friend was on the phone. After realizing it was her mom, she stood up to go talk to her somewhere a little more quiet, leaving me, alone, on a blanket.

It was like he just came out of the shrubbery. 

He spotted me almost instantly.

Now, my french is not trés bien, but I can speak and understand at at leaaaast at a third grade level. Anyways, the small french man approached me. I was a bit scared at first, then he said to me that he was an artist, so, being me, I suddenly acted very interested in whatever he was saying.

He told me he took pictures of people, and their feet. He showed me some photographs he had taken, and they seemed pretty legit, so I agreed.

I thought this was going to be a simple process, that he was going to take a few pictures then leave, but no. I was very wrong. 

He started to touch them, and arrange them in certain ways, which I didn't think was too out of the ordinary, until he told me they were beautiful, and...sweet. Then I got a little nervous...

Suddenly he started getting really into taking the pictures. He was getting my feet from all angles, and instructing me to "move them naturally," because "it is more beautiful that way." 

Of course I couldn't move my feet naturally, I would have had to be in a comfortable, relaxed situation to do that. Instead I was moving my toes like they were doing little miniature toe crunches.

This went on for about 6.7 minutes before my friend came over and sat down awkwardly. The three of us kind of sat still for a couple of seconds before he said he should be going. But of course it couldn't end so easily. He turn to my friend and asks to take pictures of her feet, but very quickly she answers with a strong NO, then he asks if anyone wants a foot massage.

Upon our reaction to this questions, he jumped right back into the shrubbery from whence he came.

I still have nightmares of my feet on some french foot fetish website called footbabes.com, or like lesbellespieds.fr.

Let's just hope these photos don't get leaked at some point, they could just ruin my chance at becoming President.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

The heartbreaking tale of Barry Gibb

This is the fantastic, yet tragic tale of Barry Gibb, the squirrel.

On this unusually warm day in March, I was 14 years old, and for some reason was in my back yard... The suddenly, from underneath my deck, a small baby squirrel emerged.

Against my mothers advice to me as a kid, I automatically bent down to get the squirrel.

To my surprise, the squirrel came right into my hands. I felt like a fucking forest nymph.
Upon inspecting the squirrel, my absurd adolescent behavior drove me to pick a unique name...

I brought Barry into my house where he was fed chex mix and milk. I thought up many different ways to conceal Barry from my father. I tried leaving him and a turned over laundry basket, but he stuck his little paws out from underneath and escaped. I tried putting him in an old ferret cage I had, but he squeezed out from in between the bars. The I put him in my bathtub and locked the bathroom door. It seemed to contain him quite nicely.

Barry Gibb was kept safely locked in my bathroom for almost a week, before his grand escape. I am almost positive the sneaky bastard had been planning it his whole stay.
Now, my Dad was not clueless to Barry's presence, since he tended to cry and leave little gifts around the house. But nonetheless, he was still quite disturbed when Barry squeezed out from underneath the bathroom door.

THE LITTLE JERK WAS HEADED DOWN THE STAIRS. Needless to say, the fact that I hid a wild animal in the house, and that the wild animal pooped all over the stairs and the bathtub, my father made me release Barry Back into nature.

Releasing Barry was very difficult. Not just because I wanted to keep him LIKE SO BAD, he would not leave me. I brought him into a forest near my house where I knew he would be safe, and set him on the ground. He promptly ran and jumped onto my leg, then climbed up my whole body so sit on my shoulder. I put him back on the ground. He chased after me. It was terribly depressing.

Fortunately for me, I am slightly smarter than a baby squirrel. I put Barry on a tree and ran for dear life.

I know Barry Gibb is still out there somewhere. He is a strong little fella, and I believe he is..... staying alive.