Toe Way Out
Forget governor. If I were queen, you wouldnít have people inflicting themselves on you in public -- on their cell phones or in other rude (and/or violently disgusting) ways. Well, not for long, anyway. I would pass a royal decree that businesses would not only have to provide wheelchair access, but an ìoutî for people assaulted by the bad manners of others. Not to worry -- this would actually play out in a democratic matter. The ìaudienceî being forced to look at or listen to something dreadfully dull or vile would vote on whether the ìperformerî gets the hook. Only this wouldnít be a hook, but a trap door. Down the hatch, boor!
Warning -- those with weak stomachs should not read on: Friday afternoon, I had the distinct displeasure, to put it mildly, of watching a guy pick his toes!! in the Starbucks on the Santa Monica Promenade. This was not a homeless wacko, but a middle-aged, grey-bearded chunko white guy wearing flip-flops, accompanied a zaftig, ponytailed J.Crew-schlumpy girlfriend; herself in dirty white flip-flops. The girlfriend was getting coffee when I marched over and told the guy, ìIím not one to do this -- just go speak to strangers in public places...î (okay, so thatís, perhaps, the lie of the century), ìbut you need to stop picking your toes RIGHT NOW! RIGHT NOW!î He did stop (picking dead skin off his toes)...and, from then on, just resorted to...ugh...fondling his toes a little -- like he was simply dying to get back to picking them. He was still toe-fondling right in my eyeline, so I changed tables. I took a huge table (having moved from a tiny one Iíd taken initially, in hopes of leaving the larger ones for groups of people). What this meant, ultimately, was that a very nice-looking family (at least, they didnít look like toe-pickers) had no place to sit. All because there are no trap doors for vile toe-pickers at Starbucks. ...Just a little something you might consider if you get to wondering who should be queen.
P.S. If, for some reason, I am not available to become royalty, I would nominate Cathy Seipp to take over the monarchy, since sheís equally unwilling to put up with vile crap like this. In fact, upon hearing of my idea, she filled in the part I left out: the moat under the trap door filled with piranhas.
what do you mean, "become" royalty? you ARE royalty already. maybe not a queen, but for sure a princess.
Lena Cuisina at August 9, 2003 11:48 AM
So where are my ladies in waiting?
Amy Alkon at August 10, 2003 2:22 PM
Maybe this guy needs a pet goat to chew his feet for him...
Still, trap doors would be AWESOME.
Clarkified at August 11, 2003 9:32 AM