Here we are again, sweating through the dog days of another brutal summer on the molten blacktop streets of NYC. And as usual, not all of this city’s male inhabitants are playing the game correctly. Hence, the Public Service Announcement I find myself compelled to deliver below:
Attention, Men of New York:
Starting today and for every day after this one unto the Rapture, there will be no more open-toed shoes in Manhattan unless you’re on your very own balcony or a roofdeck somewhere, far from my gaze.
I’m all for a pair of flip flops at the beach or on vacay.
But sandals on the subway? You f***ing serious? Mandals? Gross!
Watching your toes slime their way through the Times Square subway station and its two inches-high layer of gelatinous grime is without question the lowlight of my day. Anyone doing that doesn’t deserve to even have a pair of feet, they should be confiscated and replaced with canvas sacks of sand for you to walk on.
And dude, if you’re not taking care of your toes, feel free not to advertise it with flip flops.
Let me tell you something, Cabron: The first things women notice when they look at a man are his hands and feet. They can’t help it and don’t even realize that they do it, this is basic biology operating at the subconscious level, a survival thing. Back before we were consumers and restaurant patrons and sex addicts and chiropractors, we were animals. Beavers and boars. And the female beavers and boars needed to see strong, capable hands and feet prior to mating and having their babies with a male. “Yes, fine, he’s a Presbyterian and my mother likes him – but can he build a damn? Can he wrestle an intruding platypus to the ground if our nest is threatened?”
And to this day, women will notice your feet and hands before anything else, even if it doesn’t register with them. Why do you think we have to wear wedding bands around our fingers as opposed to a necklace or bracelet? It’s a territorial thing, fellas, women instinctively know where other women are going to look. By not taking care of your hands and feet (with clean, short nails), you are de facto removing yourself from the possibility of any kind of female interest, so put your hairy toes away – especially if I have to share a lunch counter with you, dirtbag.
And just one more thing – I don’t care what GQ is telling us this month, under NO circumstances are you to start dressing up like Indiana Jones.
Oh, and last thing, I promise – Madras pants or seersucker ANYTHING are both punishable by death, effective immediately. Got that, Gatsby?
Okay, PSA over, let’s all go back to business in appropriate footwear.
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