Toe Jam

I can't remember exactly when toe number five stepped onto a wild path of destruction. It may have been around the time that I switched from cotton bindings to razor-wire containment boots.

I didn't notice much at first — perhaps just a fragrance of discontentment that seemed to puffle from the rebel pores of number five.

I came to believe that this foolish resentment had been bubbling for some time. Indeed, the razor-wire boots were simply my little way of discouraging counter-productive thinking on the part of any terminating digits.

(An out of line step yields instant consequence.)

After all, toes must be made to understand that proper alignment ensures the safety of the whole locomotive organ and indeed of the whole body organic. Razor-wire containment boots are thus best thought of as sensible whole-foot insurance.

Ah, but alas, some toes are just no damned good. Number five would not align. It moved about in an aimless and frenetic manner. Cut and shred it bled and bled until at long last I was almost annoyed by its obstinacy, not to mention the discoloration of my safety foot wear.

Given no reasonable alternative what else could I do but rip that fussing protrusion from its moorage and spit it out on to its sibling members so as to teach each remaining digit a thing or two about foot protection?

In any case, this all accounts for a small limp, which will worsen no further I dare say.