Did I ever tell you about the time I met the president? It happened a little after i moved to America after the famous ‘Penis Bite’ incident. As it helped me with the visa and some property taxes I was officially recorded as a representative of Yugoslavia (my home country). Normally, this would never come up in my life. Although I was a representative I never had to, well, represent! Why would they pick some dumbfuck from the boonies to be the representative of their country? I’m the dreg of the possible choices! But, as fate would have it i was in just the position of representative for my country on a worldwide stage. It was the president’s fault, his mercurial and impulsive nature. 

He had decided that “Anytown USA” would be the stage of the G7 conference (probably because he owned a strip club there) and had decided this at the last possible minute. While most counties have private jets and such for their leaders I bet it’s not a gamble to guess that Yugoslavia does not. Because of this, I was chosen to be the representative at this summit. After all, it was only a few bus stops away for me. 

So there I was. Standing shoulder*cum*shoulder with some of the most powerful people in the world (sine Putin). 

But, when I went out to reach for Trumpy the Dumpy’s hand he did something odd. He didn’t put his hand out but instead his foot! He had in an instant slipped his foot out of his shoe and his sock off in an instant (quite the impressive feat for such a demented old man) and plunged forward his big toe! Out of shock and the anxiety that I had been feeling the whole summit to this point I responded with no response. I still reached out, grabbed his big toe (unusually large and disproportionate to the rest of his body I might add), and shook it vigorously.

That’s not all, though! His foot was cold, seemingly dead, and wet. Not just wet but soggy too; feeling like the skin might fall off like a chicken nugget that loses its breading. Somehow it was also sticky. Extremely so. I’m surprised he was able to get his sock and shoe off especially without leaving any remnant lint on his foot; his foot was glossy like a sticker. Imagine the way that young children’s hands are always somehow sticky but at the intensity of a glue trap for rats. That is how sticky his foot was. 

Then, Suddenly, he prodded his foot more so into my hand. I was no longer holding his Big Toe but had the entire sole of his foot fretting against my hand. Like a worm, it writhed. From this distance, I could smell its musk. The foot matched Its smell with its texture. Both could be easily mistaken for a dead fish. 

Just as quickly as he hoisted his foot into my hand he pulled it away. Like someone yanking their dog away by a leash, he pulled his foot back. And into the shoe with his sock, it went.