I Love My Wife. She Hates Her Feet.

She had the body of a dancer, and feet like trashcan lids. Boy, what stompers! People crossed the street whenever she wore flip flops. Big, big fucking feet. Size 34 quadruple wide. But she was my wife, and like I said before, she had the body of a dancer, which turned my peeny into throbbing salami.




We had serious talks now and again, about having her feet cut off and replaced with regulation sized prostheses. Attaining the fake feet would be easy. My cousin Randy is a master whittler, and had already carved and painted a batch of sample feet.

The difficult part would be finding someone willing to chop her goddamn feet off. Every doctor and surgeon we consulted wanted nothing to do with us. They were understanding of our grief, but weren't willing to risk their careers for a cosmetic, non life-threatening condition. Even Dr. Patel, whom I've known for 12 years, was deeply insulted when I asked him for a referral. He shooed me away.




So we ended our search and I told my wife that I loved her no matter what her feet looked like, and she did a backflip because she was overjoyed to have such a supportive husband. Did I mention that she does awesome backflips? Very stable landing gear.

Anyway, we made love twice a day for the next week or so, which was a strange but welcome change, as she hardly ever feels attractive, even though she's got a gorgeous face and her ass is the bomb. I'm always down to fuck, but she'll only indulge me about once a week.




Then came the incident at Walmart. Two teenagers followed her around the store, hitting her feet with hammers, laughing their asses off. After that, we launched another search for a foot butcher. This time, we sought out alternative practitioners, and other underground healers. I found a guy on the Internet who seemed legit, until I got him on the phone. Total creep. He got breathy when I described how big her feet were. Then he asked if he could keep the feet for research after the amputation. I prodded him about what kind of research he was doing, and he whispered, "I wanna hollow them out and wear 'em. In the woods...I'm an asshole." I hung up, and curled into a ball of furious submission.




The fruitless searches and overwhelming despair began to affect our marriage. She started going to pet stores late at night, bringing home tarantulas, and flushing them down the toilet. It was the only thing that made her happy. At one point, she was spending $200 a day on spiders. We were losing money, and I was losing respect for her. Instead of graceful perseverance in the face of failure, she resorted to impulsive behavior. Not to mention the awkward conversation I had with our plumber, explaining why our pipes were clogged with hundreds of tarantula corpses.

Then one night, she didn't come home. I felt relieved. A couple more days passed without communication. My relief turned to concern, which quickly turned to panic. I didn't eat or sleep for 3 days. My body shut down sometime on the 4th day. I woke up on the kitchen floor with a note stuffed in my shirt-pocket. It was from my wife. She was leaving me, leaving the life she knew to follow a higher calling. She was going to protect apes in Uganda and kill rare spiders on the side. I called bullshit on that, and found her a few hours later in a park 3 towns over, eating hot dogs on a picnic table. I retained a lawyer, and we got divorced a month later.




She never did get her feet fixed. On occasion, I'd get an e-mail from her letting me know what she'd been up to. Sandcastle competitions, shaman stabbings, relaxin' in a rowboat. She was living her life without me, and I had to accept it. I kept telling myself that she wasn't the same woman I had married, that our life had become a fiesta of affliction. But no matter how I rationalized it, it still stung. I still loved her.

I got a phone-call from the sheriff the other day, telling me that my ex-wife had died. Apparently, she ate poo and died on a freeway off-ramp. She had eaten too much poo. Don't eat poo. It'll kill you.