I Have Money...Can I Smell Your Feet?, and other popular life lessons

I have to say, that for the most part, I have quit watching the History Channel.

And for good reason. Yesterday, as I got home, I was taking a load off, and flipping the channels...the show that I did want to watch was in commercial, and I never want to watch the commercials. So, I paused for a moment to watch a bit of the History Channel's show on the Panama Canal and the now deposed Noriega. It was the end of the show, and there was a little photo recap. During this photo recap was a quick picture of the President Bush Jr. and then a few frames went past and there was a quick blip of Saddam. Nothing was said about these two, and there was nothing made of the pictures, just quick blips. Quick clever blips. That type of slipped in comparison is a cheap shot. If fact, I turned off the television all together. Fuckers. That's what I thought. Fuckers.

I'm not terribly fond of the History Channel anyway. They mostly run segments pertaining solely to wars...as if that was the entire makeup of our collective history. It's comparative to the person at the Fox network who seems to adore the show MASH...as this is also on at any given time, somewhere on the cable span. And comparative to the person at Taco Bell, who uses the same twenty-odd ingredients to come up with new ways to get us into the drive thru line when we're drunk or broke.

Have we become that uninventive? Stifling creative urges will only lead us to destruction. (See...the Borg...Star Trek, The Next Generation.)

Yesterday, I was reminded of an experience at the nudie bar that I used to work at, which seems to ring true for the above thoughts.

There was the man who liked feet. He didn't drink. He had a good job. He was average looking...in fact, everything was average about him...except he liked feet. He always asked for me. And it did take him some time to get up the courage to let me in on his plan. He didn't want dances, he wanted to smell and rub my feet. Well, this isn't really my bag, but I did have waitress feet, that were often tired and hurt, and I would be getting paid. So, I struck up a deal with him.

He could rub my feet, and he could even smell them. HOWEVER, there was to be no sighing, no moaning, no licking, no placing on or near his crotch, and I at no time wanted to know what he was thinking. I wanted the money up front, of course.

He agreed. And his only request was that I wear dirty socks.

So, it was a deal.

Then there came a time, where naturally, he upped the ante.

I was leaving work. The bouncer was escorting me to my car. And there he was, the footsy guy. I immediately told him, my shift was over, and he would have to leave me alone.

He pleaded for just one minute. One minute, I said. And the bouncer stayed.

He said that he would pay me a couple of hundred dollars if I would sit in my car and take my shoes off and just push the gas pedal up and down for five minutes, saying, "Vroom...Oh, This Makes The Car Go Faster. Vroom."

I said no. He said five hundred dollars. The bouncer looked at me liked he wanted to do it.

I said, fifteen hundred dollars. That's one thousand for me, and five hundred for the bouncer. And if would be three minutes, and I would time it. And all of the same rules applied as in the bar. No sighing, no moaning, no licking of anything, nothing on or near his crotch, and I, at no time, wanted to know about anything going on in his head.

He said that was too much. I said, ok, see you later. He just couldn't stand it. You could see that he just couldn't stand it. I knew that he had the money. And the fact of the matter is, if you're going to cost someone else for their time, and more importantly, your weird foot habit, that has to cost. They're not especially fantastic feet, but, they're not bargain basement, overthecounter feet either.

The bouncer was just seeing me to the car, when foot guy came back up to us. He would meet my foot price after all.

So, I gave the bouncer his cut. Man, was he happy. After that, this bouncer always watched over me...often catering to me. He might have taken someone out for me, if I'd ever needed it. You can't buy my loyalty for five hundred bucks, but whatever. I took my cut. I took of my shoes, and while foot guy watched with extreme fascination and glee, I did what he asked. I am, after all, a person of my word.

I timed the foot thing. Three minutes where up. The foot guy backed off, and seemed happy with his purchase. I said good night to all, shut my car door, put my seatbelt on, lit my after work cigarette, started the car, and began to drive home. All in a day's work, for the nudie bar.

How I think this applies, is that I never want to stuff my creative urges so far into myself that I end up being the person addicted to formulating lies for other people, or being addicted to MASH, or being the person who needs to smell feet. I'm just saying.