Tasty is the Foot


Often, when trying to lighten the mood, clowns like me serve a verbal gem that winds up causing a good foot chewing. We forget that the things we find amusing may not be taken as intended, or the timing of the delivery has room for improvement.

I consider myself a master of crassness and poor timing, as exemplified by a few good foot munchings this past weekend.

Scene #1 – The Clerk

I enter a 7-11 to pick up seeds and Gatorade for my adult baseball (not fucking softball) game. In tow, I have a lovely young lady. She grabs some lady stuff (US Weekly). Clerk asks if the purchases are combined. I’m a gentleman. Yes, of course they are. Clerk begins friendly banter.

“That’s nice of you, buying this for your …”

(I fear the word “daughter” or “maid” about to emerge, so I interject.)


“Of course. You’re a handsome man. You deserve a young lady-friend.”

“Thank you, and you need a vision check-up.”

As often is the case, I was not making eye contact with the clerk during this discussion. This is my introversion. I’ve been working on it. People, unlike wild beasts, prefer to be looked in the eyes when addressed. I know this. I should do this. I pick a bad time to begin—after my vision comment.

When I made eye contact, a horror swept over me, as one eye across from me had a blueberry sized growth.

“Yeah, I have eye cancer, which kind of messes me up at times, but I can see well enough to say you’re handsome.”

All I could do was thank her, leave, and beg my lady-friend for forgiveness. Fortunately, while being early in our relationship, she knows me well enough to point and laugh at my misstep.

Scene #2 – The Game

We arrive at the baseball (does not involve kegs at loose bases) game. While putting on my spikes (softball players wear sneakers, dammit), a teammate begins applying tar spray on his bat handle. A black teammate hears the spraying and quips.

“Hey, anybody got sunscreen?”

Yes, I know he’s black. Yes, I know he doesn’t need sunscreen. Yes, I know he is being silly. I’m still brain-locked from the clerk encounter. I respond.

“That’s not … well, maybe for you.”

A silence fell across the dugout.

Does Home Depot sell brain-to-mouth filters? I’m in desperate need.

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About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.