homo escapeons

BUNIONWRECTOMY

Comforting my sole

Like many of you, I am a survivor of well

intentioned excruciatingly painful

medical procedures.

Last year I had the misfortune of having my

junk lasered thanks to a highly contested and

very public court ordered vaswrectomy...

the entire nightmare is meticulously preserved in my archive.

Today I shall try to summon the courage

to relive the horror of my Bunionwrectomy.

You think that's funny eh?

Think you can handle watching 2 short

animations of Buniowrectomy?

I dare you to watch the SAW thingamajiggy

and the DRILL doohickey!

Time has partially healed my wounded sole(s)

and I take a modicum of solace in the

knowledge that there are important celebrities

who are afflicted by this merciless blight.

If you were to Google "Bunion" one would

discover images of not only the legendary

woodsman Paul Bunion,

but also Iman, Oprah, Posh and Paris who

boldly parade about with gnarly feet and refuse

to disguise their disfigurement

...courageous Ladies one and all!

Nowadays everyone knows that bunions are

induced from wearing high heels, but back in the 60s it had not yet been scientifickily proven.

My Mommy still blames herself for the way

she dressed me in grade school...

but I know that my Mommy and her cohorts

of the Baby Boom Era, 

were unaware of the long term effects of

stylish footwear.

By the early 70s my dogs were barkin' on a

daily basis and my Mommy made the

decision to incapacitate me with her "helper",

an ether soaked rag,

then under cover of darkness,

delivered my limp, unconscious, body

to the experimental podiaphile procedures

wing of the Children's Hospital.

When I awoke my arches had fallen and my

very first thought was that my promising

lucrative career in track & field was finito.

The year before I had surprised the staff,

my schoolmates, and myself, by placing

first in 2 sprinting events.

My dream of being a studly jock had vanished!

Now my school days were ruined!

I know that my Mommy mean't well,

but if I couldn't be a Track Star,

how was I supposed to be uber-popular and

procure a perpetual panoply of spontaneous

random sexual favours from biologically

accomodating nymphomaniacal

cheerleaders plagued with self-image issues?

From that day forward I had been sentenced

to the drudgery of serial monotony!

Were it not for the Morphine,

which was totally AWESOME,

I may have fallen into deep despair.

Yet I went on with my life,

and somehow made the most with what

I had left of my now horribly mutilated

and disfigured body. 

Out of the agony of defeet, 

one can find a deeper understanding of Life,

and soothe their sole.