I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. I have been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees, I write award-winning operas, I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.

I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.

Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When I’m bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.

I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear. I don’t perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat 400. My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.

I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy. I once read Paradise Lost, Moby ♥♥♥♥, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an entire dining room that evening. I know the exact location of every food item in the supermarket. I have performed several covert operations for the CIA. I sleep once a week; when I do sleep, I sleep in a chair. While on vacation in Canada, I successfully negotiated with a group of terrorists who had seized a small bakery. The laws of physics do not apply to me.

I balance, I weave, I dodge, I frolic, and my bills are all paid. On weekends, to let off steam, I participate in full-contact origami. Years ago I discovered the meaning of life but forgot to write it down. I have made extraordinary four course meals using only a mouli and a toaster oven. I breed prizewinning clams. I have won bullfights in San Juan, cliff-diving competitions in Sri Lanka, and spelling bees at the Kremlin. I have played Hamlet, I have performed open-heart surgery, and I have spoken with Elvis.

Non-footfags exhibit pathological behaviour. Notice their perpetual anger, their idiotic incredulity. No other fetish seems to inspire such devoted hatred, it is not only that “they don’t get it”, but that for some reason they believe that no one should “get it”, they must crusade against it. It is bizarre. All kinds off odd and abject bedroom rituals get a free pass, and yet partialism for a part of the human body, something on literally almost every single person, inspires obsessive, unbridled antipathy. Perhaps the rage is because other people’s healthy desires reminds the anti-♥♥♥♥♥♥♥ of how they are alienated from their own bodies. It is probably a very Western prejudice, an affliction of modernity (even a century ago I notice in proper bourgeois literature references to “pretty” or “handsome” feet, not something that would appear in today’s literature without the connotation of fetishism). Feet are kept out of sight and out of mind. And keeping them bundled up tight in shoes all day is what is responsible for most of their unpleasant characteristics—infection, odour, misshaping; meaning that when the shoes finally do come off most people, presented with their neglected feet, associate them with disgust... the feet themselves are unfairly blamed rather than the conditions forced upon them. Notice the completely disproportionate commodity fetishism built around shoes. I’ve had some “people” remark to me that they prefer the gaudy design of designer label sneakers over the limb you wear them on. Is there a more rotten, insectoid, consumerist and anti-human attitude than that? Preferring literally cheaply made industrial fibre, cynically marketed, a fad, over flesh and skin of an anatomical marvel which has served us for tens of millennia.