MEASURED IN FEET

Oh boy! Medical appointment tomorrow! And discussions of something normal and well-within the purview of a typical Dutch American, such as I often pretend to be! Specifically, a future peripheral angioplasty of the lower extremities! Soon! After being at work for a few days I need normal conversation.

[Peripheral angioplasty of the lower extremities: First give the Dutch American on the table drugs to keep him from twitching, then make an incision and snake a miniture roto-rooter fitted out with a little balloon down into the legs, and twiddle at the right moments to inflate the little balloon and widen the channel, and after the procedure is done send him upstairs to eventually wake up. And, because drugs were involved, keep him overnight. During which time he'll lay awake all night because there apparently is a demented woman in the room next door, moaning theatrically because she is distressed at her surroundings and she doesn't want to be there. A one person Greek chorus to the bloodshed in the Serengeti on the nature channel late at night. She was still doing that at six in the morning when the nurse came around with my coffee and asked if I felt capable of leaving. Oh boy did I ever. Couldn't wait to get the heck out. No, no need to keep me another day, it was quite lovely, thank you very much!]

It did not help that in my function of emergency father confessor I got to listen to senile old farts praising the ex-president, or other senile old farts waxing ecstatic over sports. Or one particular senile old fart going on and on about the banking crisis. While actually farting.
And thank you for punctuating your paragraphs, dude.
Very creative of you.

Or, and this doesn't happen very often, a Cantonese American apartment mate describing Ching Ming observances at the graveyard. During which it was windy enough that setting fire to stuff was nearly impossible. And cold enough that her nose ran severely. And accidentally ending up with a soggy bottom.

While I was lying down resting my feet which hurt and ached immensely.

As middle-aged Dutch American feet will do, especially after being at work for several days, because there are circulatory issues which may necessitate a peripheral angioplasty of the lower extremeties, such as might, hypothetically, be discussed under more normal circumstances, on Monday afternoon during a medical appointment.

And, speaking of feet, the turkey vulture wishes to have his feetsies massaged.

The turkey vulture's feetsies are clearly visible in the photo. Do they look like they actually NEED soothing attention to you? They look perfectly hale and hearty to me. And my feet hurt. They've been at work for a few days, and they've been tormented by senile old farts praising Trump or having fits of drooling ecstasy over sports. They've also listened to the adventures of someone performing all the necessary rituals of Ching Ming down at the graveyard because it's that time of year again. My feet are not perky like his.


They have experienced life. They have suffered.
They're having an existential crisis.

My feet observe the world with anguish and jaundice.
Life,they seem to say, is hard sometimes.
And the floor is concrete.
Also, cold.



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