C’mon, dude! I didn’t need to see your tube-socked feet this morning propped up on the train seat, like you were waiting for a pedicure or foot massage.
I don’t know where you or those feet have been, and I’m not really interested in finding out. Where were you raised, at Thom McCann? Do you drop shoe and assume this position of comfort wherever you go?
Give us all a break; put those feet back inside your nasty New Balance sneakers, where they belong.
OK, I must admit, I’m a bit jealous. I’d love to have my size 12s unfettered from their leather prison. But something deep inside of me, not sure whether it’s a nature thing or a nurture thing, tells me I just shouldn’t do it. Cause, there are, like, other people around, dude!
Maybe you’re some out-of-touch, spoiled socialite on his way back from a party in the Hamptons. OK. I get it. If that’s the case, why not go the whole way? Take off the tubes, too, and let the all the salt, fat, and alcohol you ingested last night escape all over that seat.
Now, where’s the conductor? He makes 50 announcements a day urging us to kindly not put our feet on the seat, and then does nothing when he encounters the violator. Coward!
What’s the punishment for such a crime? A stern look, maybe? A little slap on this little piggy or that little piggy? What should be done is to dip your feet in honey, and then into a swarming horde of red ants. Beats scalding butter, though.
Well, thanks for grossing me out this morning, Mr. Tube Sock Guy.
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