I don't generally believe astrology (I'll entertain myself with it, no doubt)... and when that subject of feet comes into play... I definitely don't agree.
I really, really, REALLY don't like feet. My dislike for feet has been one of the key factors behind me no longer staring at the ground when I walk (I now keep my gaze slightly above the ground... say, torso-level).
I don't go to extremes and tell people not to expose their toes in my presence, or outright scream something like "Oh shit! Those are some tore-up toes you got there!"
I just ignore feet.
Well, at least I try to ignore feet as often as possible... that is, until my brother comes back from wherever the hell he's been.
Something about the poor guy just makes me want to give him pedicures (maybe it's when he'll come up to me and say something like "Yo, my feets iz all fucked up. You needa fix 'em," No, he's not retarded, he just likes talking like... Biggie Smalls. He better not talk like that at Notre Dame... better not). His toes are fucked up!
(Bruises like a M.F.er!)
They've been like that since... I don't know... but I didn't get the urge to help out until 2001, when he first got out of basic training. His toes were JACKED, I suppose from all the difficult b.s. he had to do in Basic. I thought maybe those messed up toenails would bug him, so I gave him a nice pedicure (plus, I was all sentimental and sad because the whole 9/11 thing had just happened and I thought I was going to lose my brother to Afghanistan. I thought "Oh God! I spent 16 years of my life pulling his hair, kicking his shins, and screaming at him... I don't want him to think of that when he's out there in the desert fearing for his life!").
Since then, I've been giving him pedicures each time he returns home (it used to be whenever he came home from Huachuca or that one time he came back from Guam/Korea. Now it's just South Bend).
Sure, I do a lot of gagging and I'd kill for someone to give me some latex gloves, but I get the job done: 
(they look a lot better whenever I have a nice, new Emory board with a brand new buffing side)
Bro: Yo, you're gonna have to do this again when I come back from Milan and we head out to El Chillo, ya know whadda mean?
Me: Fool, if your toes are fucked up by July, I'm kicking your ass. What the hell are you doing with your feet?
Bro: Ya know... going t'clubs, pimpin' some ladies...
Me: And getting your toes stepped on? Shit, those ladies need to learn how to dance... look at them bruises!
Maybe Walter Mercado does have a point (I might give a pedi to a homie... might)... or my brother and I just have a unique bond... one which neither of us admit to willingly.
(Bro to friends: Nah, bitch, I was born with these nails! I got good genes!
Me to friends: Nah, man, my bro gets his shit done at nail salons... I would NEVER touch those shits!)
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