No amount of water can wash away the pain

Pedicure.

A word suggesting electro-shock therapy for fiddlers.

And obscuring a reality that is far more repellent than all the child abuse in the world combined.

Every day on my way home from work I pass a pedicure salon which, without fail, is straining to its very foundations beneath some fat fucking asshole reclining like some entitled movie star, hefty leg of mutton protruding, a poor diminutive girl scraping off diseased nails and dead skin cells, mustering every ounce of energy it takes to not run outside and hurl herself in front of the next tram.

Here’s my whole rant in a nutshell: What sort of a cunt makes another human being clean and scrape their disgusting fucking hooves?

In your addled mind, your feet are dainty and beautiful, like some mysterious Empress of a long-faded civilisation.

In the actual world of real things however, your feet are hideous misshapen slabs of smelly beef that should never ever be let out.

The only meaningful difference between you and a cow with severe bacterial hoof infection is the size of your alarmingly under-utilised cerebral cortex.

Here’s a wild idea: why don’t you scrape out your own toe jam?

If I’m coming across a mite misogynistic then let me dispel your concerns and clear the putrid sweaty air – this is only because it’s the bitches who are getting the pedicures.

The bloke equivalent would be an anal grooming salon, ‘Gruff-Nuts R Us’.

Here men would bend over and read Top Gear magazine while wage-slaves picked out their gruff nuts (the little bits of poo that can gather on hairs around the anus – Urban Dictionary) like poor depressed little chimps.

This is the only thing I can imagine that is as disgusting as pedicures, and I truly feel that I’m barely exaggerating here.