Crushing Thomas in Magic

The dark-haired boy stared at the cards in his hand. He held them with both hands, but they were not organized. Some cards were upside down. It was a ramble of Magic The Gathering cards. His deck was a hodge-podge of cards that were loosely connected, if at all. His deck a couple good cards, and one cool combo. It seemed impossible that he would ever get all four cards he needed out of his 60 cards deck, but he often got lucky.
He looked at his side of the table. There sat three of the 4 cards he needed to complete his combo. The dark-haired boy’s opponent was playing a combo deck of his own, so the dark haired boy had had more time than he should have. The dark-haired boy was too caught up in his own strategy to concern himself with what his opponent was doing. If he could draw the card he needed on this turn, he would be able to pull of the combo that had never failed him.
The dark-haired boy drew his card. Across the top of it read: Energy Chamber. He paused to listen to the taunting of his opponent, which he had drowned out.
“Hurry up, it’s not like your gonna draw another energy chamber.”
The dark-haired boy placed his right hand in two of the many cards before him. One was blue, the other red. The blue one read Seat of the Synod. The red one read Great Furnace. They both read, “Land” across the center. By “taping” them, he had invoked their abilities. Each gave him one mana. He needed this mana to play his Energy Chamber.
The dark-haired boy placed his third Energy Chamber on the table with a smirk. His fair-haired opponent gawked in astonishment. He could not believe that the dark-haired boy had drawn all three of his Energy Chambers and his sole Magistrate’s Scepter.
With the power of the three Energy Chambers behind it, the Magistrate Scepter allowed the dark-haired boy to take an infinite number of turns, one after another.
“Wow, that’s luck,” said the fair-haired opponent.
The dark-haired boy started taking turns and drawing cards. He failed to notice the giggling coming from the other side of the table. Eventually he played one of his strongest creatures. When he was ready to attack, he finally looked at what his opponent had of the table. His opponent had no creatures out. In fact, the fair-haired teen had no creatures in his deck whatsoever. He didn’t need them.
The dark-haired boy declared his attack. His opponent burst into laughter. The dark-haired boy was stunned and confused. He was sure he had won. The fair-haired teen pointed to a card on his side of the table. The dark-haired boy let out a groan. His combo had failed him for the first time. One card had thwarted him.
Across the top of the gray card read the words: Glacial Chasm. Under the picture read the word: “Land“. Usually lands only produced mana. This land was not ordinary. This land did not produce mana. The rules text was where the true power of the card lived. The first line read: “Cumulative upkeep—Pay 2 life“. At the beginning of the turns; succeeding the turn it comes into play; the controller of the card must pay 2, then 4, then 6 life, and so on, to keep the card in play. Considering that a player starts with 20 life, Glacial Chasm becomes very dangerous to the controller after only a few turns. The next line read: “If Glacial Chasm would come into play, sacrifice a land instead. If you do, put Glacial Chasm into play. If you don’t, put it into its owner’s graveyard.” Lands are a valuable resource to any player. Without them you can do nothing. A player can only play one land per turn, and only on their turn. Sacrificing a land to play another land can set you back two turns. The third line read: Skip your combat phase. The combat phase is when your creatures attack. This was why the fair-haired teen had no creatures in his deck. The final line of rules text was the only reason to play Glacial Chasm. It read: “Prevent all damage that would be dealt to you.” Creatures and damage spells can’t touch you, with Glacial Chasm on the board. There are cards that can get around this restriction, but the dark-haired boy had none of those cards in his deck.
Without a way to win, the dark-haired boy stopped taking extra turns, before he lost for running out of cards to draw from his deck. The fair-haired boy was giddy. He had put Glacial Chasm in his deck with this specific situation in mind. He loved the idea of someone loosing despite having infinite turns. On his first turn after thwarting the infinite turns combo, the fair-haired teen pulled off his combo. He blasted his pale-faced opponent into oblivion.
“I can’t believe you couldn’t win with infinite turns,” the taunting continued.
The dark-haired boy sat at the table sullen and beaten. He was used to loosing; he did so regularly. But this loss was different. He had had every card in his entire deck at his disposal. A wide array of powerful creatures, finishing spells and all the mana he could hope for. But still he had come up short. One card had stopped him.
He sat there stunned while, “he lost with infinite turns,” emanated from the mouth of his opponent. They did not understand Magic, but they could comprehend the concept of loosing despite having every possible resource available.
The dark-haired boy stuffed his cards into his bag and rose from the green table.

The Pigeon

He hovered in midair. The air current held up his portly body and, if only for a moment, he was suspended, exerting no force to keep himself in place. The sun beamed in his face and he closed his eyes, enjoying the moment. He was a strange figure, hovering in the air against the blue backdrop of the cloudless sky. Had any person looked at him, they would have been surprised to see a pigeon hovering so elegantly. Alas no one did see him, for he was hovering next to the Pulaski skyway. There were no slow moving pedestrians to turn their heads and enjoy his magnificence. There were only commuters, barreling past the speed limit without regard for human life, much less natural beauty.
He wished he could stay there forever, but the current was not strong enough and he was too fat for it to last. He fluttered down to the black railing of the bridge. Cars continued to whiz by. He looked out over the river and drowned out the pummeling sound of rolling rubber. He hated the cars, but he loved the bridge. It allowed him to see for miles, and gave him easy access to the best air stream he had ever found. It also gave him a chance to be alone.
None of the other pigeons ever came out on the bridge. They never found any food up there, so they didn’t bother with it. They couldn’t understand why he always went up there, but they figured that he must have discovered a secret food source that he wanted to keep to himself. They resented him for this and gave him smaller shares of food. It hadn’t hurt his figure. He was still plump and round, but he was malnourished.
The last couple days had been especially hard, and he hadn’t been out to the bridge in a week. Thinking that his secret food stash might have run out, the other pigeons had given him normal servings of food for the last two days. The moment he felt his strength return he had hurried out to the bridge. Being away from it for so long had sent him into depression and returning had filed him with ecstasy.
He had been so excited that he had over exerted himself, and was breathing heavily. While he tried to collect himself he looked out down the river at another bridge. The Pulaski skyway was very high and stretched far in both directions away from the river. The other bridge was only to cross the river, and the middle of it could rise to let the big tanker ships through. The Pulaski skyway was high enough that all the ships could fit under it, without it moving.
At this moment, the middle of the draw bridge was raised. The ship was not yet visible. A line of cars stretched far on both sides of the bridge, waiting, without a choice, for the coming ship.
The pigeon looked to his left and glanced at the park where he lived. He hated living there. The constant death sapped his spirit. Everyday at least one pigeon would get careless and get decimated by a car. The pigeon swore that a car would never crush him.
The pigeon looked at the area of the river between himself and the drawbridge. Two-dozen pleasure crafts lay in the water, evenly spaced, on the right side of the river. They were part of the Passaic River Yacht Club, located along the Hackensack River.
The pigeon had gone there the other day looking for food. When he got there he didn’t find any food, only angry seagulls. They didn’t appreciate his situation. The pigeon looked at his scars and shivered.
Despite his experience with the seagulls, the pigeon decided that he could never go back to the park. He had to find a new home. He puffed out his chest and ruffled his feathers, getting himself pumped up for his adventure.
The pigeon spread his wings and was smacked in the face with a rush of cold air. He was tossed through the air. He flapped his wings, unable to control his movement. Up, down, left and right all blurred together to form a limbo of nausea. Sound faded away. Time was funneled out; the blurry haze engulfed him for eternity.
The concrete divider was a breath of reality. Time came roaring back. The pigeon whacked into the divider and bounced over it, onto the other side of the skyway. Dazed, all he could taste was blood.
The world was red. The pigeon’s eyes were filled with blood and he could barely make out shapes. He gasped for breath, choking on the blood in his throat. His sides ached; his wings were twisted and broken. His legs worked hard, trying to bring him to his feet, but his head continued to lie on the warm asphalt.
To keep himself from panicking, the pigeon tried to focus on an object. It seemed to be steadily increasing in size. It seemed to be rectangular in shape. It seemed to be an 18-wheeler heading straight for his face.
The black tire cruised along the black asphalt. It was quite content doing what it was made for. It had fun spinning around and around, perfectly repeating the motion. It was quite annoyed when it found a tiny soft object in its path.
The tiny object went squish under the power of the tire. It put up very little fight. Its skeleton shattered into a fine powder. All the fluids and mush inside burst out of the tiny objects sides and back. The tire was now soaked in a sticky red fluid.
“Red? What the hell?” thought the tire.
The red tire cruised across the black asphalt and was depressed.
The road kill analyzed the situation. After much deliberation it decided that death was not that bad and gracefully accepted to never think again.
When Copernicus’s parents named him, they had high hopes for his future. These hopes went up in flames when Copernicus’s uncle, Chester, burned Copernicus’s parents to death with a flamethrower. Chester had also been Copernicus’s parent’s lawyer and had secretly changed their wills so that all of their possessions were left to Chester’s horse; who was also named Copernicus.
Chester was not convicted of murder because the evidence had mysteriously burned up. Being his nearest relative, Chester was given custody of Copernicus, the child. Copernicus, the child spent the first five years of his life in a cage in Chester’s basement. There he was fed a healthy diet of rat feces and vitamin pills.
Copernicus, the child was released when Chester was arrested for killing Copernicus, the horse, who had just been elected senator in Mississippi.
Chester was shouting, “You’re a sellout! A sellout!” when the police arrested him.
Chester was sentenced to hanging and Copernicus, the child was sent to live with his grandfather’s illegitimate son and daughter, who had married and had five retarded children. They raised Copernicus, the teen to become a truck driver, but he was a rebel and swore that he would never become a truck driver.
Copernicus, the man drove his truck along the Pulaski Skyway. He was in his forties, and weighed about 350 pounds. He had been driving trucks for so long that his legs were only good for pushing; they were no good for standing. He smelled like a man who hadn’t bathed in ten years, but really it had only been five. Empty McDonald’s packaging was strewn about his truck; it was all he ate. His beard was long, greasy, and full of crumbs; he had found an entire sandwich in there once. The top of his head was shiny and without a trace of hair.
“Big Smelly” was written in faded green ink across his forehead. His nephew had written that there seven years ago. Copernicus had then tied a cinder block to his nephew’s leg and thrown him off a bridge to drown. The child’s parents had thanked him for relieving them of a burden. He had never gone to a family reunion again. He had been too lazy to clean the ink off his forehead.
Copernicus had failed to hear the squish when his truck had crushed the pigeon. He was busy trying to teach himself to steer with his fat. He had taken a layer of flab and pulled it over the bottom of the steering wheel. The flab looked like an alien organism coming out from underneath his red plaid shirt. It was covered in hair and was bubbling. Copernicus had become quite skilled at manipulating his blubber over the years. He sent ripples through his fat from left to right. This caused more flab to cross over the left side of the bottom of the steering wheel. The added weight caused the wheel to turn to the left to equalize the total weight on both sides.
Pleased with his accomplishment, Copernicus, the man tilted his head back in triumph. This was all he could do, because there was too much fat on his shoulders for him to lift his arms. Copernicus, the man shed a tear. It trickled down his greasy face and paused at the edge of his beard. It was now 10% water 90% grease.
The teardrop was now yellow, and was disgusted with its existence. The water quickly evaporated from Copernicus’s burning face. The grease seeped into his already ripe beard.
Copernicus had never been so happy. The ability to steer with his fat had consumed him for the last 20 years. Now he could let his arms become withered and useless like his legs. He was one step closer to becoming a blob creature with no extremities whatsoever.
The red truck glistened in the morning light. It soared along the skyway, hauling gasoline. The silver tanker gracefully gleamed shimmering silver. Cars roared past, each one indistinguishable from the next. They all cruised past the truck, disregarding the speed limit, which Copernicus always followed exactly.
A red Jaguar weaved its way through the pack. Despite the handicap of an intoxicated driver, the car was handling well. Its speed was increasing with disregard to safety. Five… seven… thirty… it passed cars with ease. It hunted the future. Eager to reach the end.
The driver was temporarily stunned by a flash of light. The car drifted into the center of the road. The Jaguar tapped a car in the outer lane from behind. The driver quickly slammed back into the center lane. The car scraped against the divider; sparks and paint chips were strewn about.
The driver’s eyes adjusted to the light. He clearly saw the glimmering back of Copernicus’s truck an inch in front of his car.
Copernicus felt a jolt from behind. A shockwave went through his belly. The shockwave curled up the edges of his fat, relieving the steering wheel. Copernicus grunted. The truck was no longer under his control. He halfheartedly tried to lift his arms, but to no avail.
Copernicus’s truck was finally free. It was no longer constricted by the greasy flesh-bag. It sighed a breath of relief. The engine quieted to a soft purr. The busted headlight turned on. The truck was filled with new spirit and vitality.
The first decision the truck made with its new found freedom was to free itself from another constriction. The truck was fed up with the road, and decided to leave it. The truck sailed across the outer lane and plowed through the wall of the bridge, taking the Jaguar, lodged under its tail, with it.
Metal crumpled and gave way to the force of the truck. Nothing could stop its march to freedom.
The truck hovered in midair. If only for a moment, it was suspended, exerting no force to keep itself in place.
Splinters of black metal and concrete spun through the air. The truck plowed upward off the bridge, giving the illusion of freedom. Then the truck was lassoed by gravity, which pulled hard and slammed the truck into the street below.
The red truck crumpled against the black pavement. The truck balanced vertically. The Jaguar slipped out, and crashed to the ground. Its windshield was smattered red on the inside. Gravity finally got its fingers around the tanker, slamming it down upon the Jaguar.
Air contracted. Heat expanded. Copernicus felt his fat boiled away. The grease on his skin and beard sizzled.
“Finally.” Copernicus was blown off the planet.
The remains of the Jaguar driver were blasted into oblivion. No one liked him anyway.
The pigeon’s blood was singed of the truck tire, which promptly flew a hundred feet away, clean, undamaged and happy.
“Hello and welcome!”
“O… yeah… Hello.”
“Some day right?”
“Um, yeah. What do you mean by that?”
“Don‘t you know?”
“Know what?”
“A gas truck and another car fell off the Pulaski skyway.”
“What?”
“Yeah. They said that the truck got hit from behind by the car and the truck driver lost control.”
“Did they live?”
“I don’t think so; the truck exploded. It’s a real shame. They haven’t been able to identify the drivers yet, since their bodies were so badly burned.”
“Can I get a carton of cigarettes?”
“O sure… The car was really nice to. A Jaguar I think it was.”
“I just bought my son a Jaguar.”
“O, well I’m sure it wasn’t him.”
“Who said it could be?”
“O, well I um… It might not have even been a Jaguar. I can’t remember.”
“How much do I owe?”
“O, um… Twenty-seven dollars and eighty-one cents.”
“Here.”
“Thank you! Have a nice day!”
The pale-faced teen stared at the man walking out the door. The man wore a scarf around his entire neck, despite the warm weather. The sun reflected off his bald spot and the teen chuckled. The man climbed into his black hummer and drive off. The teen returned to staring at the mesmeric green tile of the gas station convenience store.
“Nice fellow,” the teen joked to himself. He started to laugh uncontrollably.
Copernicus’s uncle Chester had been hanged, but not to death. Chester had escaped the noose, by untying his hands and setting fire to the noose. Chester remembered the ring of fire around his neck. He remembered that the rope had been stronger than he had expected and he had almost suffocated. The incident had left the skin around his neck permanently charred.
Chester drove his Hummer knowing that his son was dead. He gave a sigh of contentment. Looking in his mirror he saw a pillar of smoke emerging from the gas station. His face turned red from laughing so hard. The thought of the pale-faced teen being burned alive just tickled his funny bone.

This story was rejected by my teacher for being vulgar

The trickle of water disturbed his slumber. He slowly opened his eyes to see a dog peeing below his face. The white dog grinded at him, finished up, and skipped away. The man turned over, ignoring the smell. He reached under his blanket, pulled up his shirt and scratched his belly. He smacked his lips; incidentally his beard got in the way. It tasted bitter.
His hip was sore from lying on the wooden bench for so long. He wiggled, trying to get the blood flowing. The sun emerged from behind a cloud. A beam of light hit the man in the face. He squirmed, trying to block the sun with his hands. The hot sun burned against his face. He promptly sat straight up, panting a little. He blinked hard, his eyes readjusting. He had to strain to keep his eyes open.
The park was filled with lush green trees, and grass. The trees more so than the grass. The grass was damaged from the excessive amount of dog urine applied to it every day. There may be a law that people have to pick up their dog’s poop, but the is no such law for dog urine. It soaks into the ground and stays there, collecting.
The man threw up onto the sidewalk. Standing up was not agreeing with him. He went over to lean on the fence that enclosed the grass area. He looked up. Near the entrance to the grass area stood another man, the owner of the dog. The dog owner was starring at him. His face was scrunched up, as if he were constipated.
The dog owner realized that the homeless man was now looking at him. He quickly averted his eyes and pretended to be focusing intently on the poop coming out of his dog’s butt.
The man sighed. He dug his hand into his but, scratching it hard. He pulled out his hand and held it out in front of his face. He caught the dog owner staring at him again.
“Nice day,” the man shouted. The dog owner was silent for a moment.
“O,” said the dog owner, making sure no one else was around. “You are speaking to me?”
“No one else around.”
“Um, yes I see.”
“Your dog seems happy.”
“Wha… O, yes Scruffy. Yes, he does look happy doesn’t he.”
“Indeed.”
“Well, um… Nice talking to you, but um… we have to go… now. So… goodbye.” The dog owner walked over to the pooping dog and fastened the purple leash in his hand to its collar. The dog’s master rose and started to leave. The dog pushed its legs out in front of it, bracing itself against the tug of the leash. The master yanked hard, pulling the dog forward. The dog yelped in pain, the collar was tight against its neck. The last drop of poop fell from its butt.
The man leaned on the fence to watch the entertainment in front of him. He felt a raindrop fall on the back of his hand and started to chuckle.
The lanky master continued to struggle with the stout dog. Neither noticed that it was beginning to rain. Their tug of war seemed endless to the man, neither party seemed to have an edge over the other. In the battle of strength they were equal.
The rain stopped changed from drizzling to pouring. The lanky struggler, realizing that he was soaked, stopped pulling to exclaim in disgust at the indignity of being wet. The stout competitor had no such apprehensions. He continued to pull. Caught off guard the lanky loser was hauled to the ground by the dog. He slammed into the mud. He lifted up his face and tried to take a breath, but found no fresh air.
The rain had released all of the dog urine stored within the ground. Now the scent was filling the air, overwhelming the senses. Even the homeless man, usually unmoved by smells, had to take a step back.
The lanky loser lost it. He started to scream and cry. He threw himself out of the mud and slammed into the fence. The winner was barking at him, however not understanding the loser’s noises, the dog stopped barking and looked up lovingly to his master. He hoped for a reward for winning the battle. The maddened master slid down the fence and sunk back into the mud. His left eye began to twitch. His clothes were soaked through with water, mud, and dog urine. In front of him his dog wagged its tail in eager expectancy for a present it was not going to get.
The witness pulled the hood of his jacket over his long tangled hair. He hadn’t been this amused in a while. He walked off, chuckling all the way.

Letter to Calculus Class

Welcome. Here you are. Ready to embark on another year of math? No? Well to bad. You should have thought of that before you decided to take AP calculus. What? You decided to take it last year, when the warm weather had clouded your judgment? You didn’t anticipate how crippling senioritis would be? Well you’re going to have to deal with it. Having a summer assignment is just the beginning of your calculus experience. Calculus can be a fun class, or your worst nightmare come to life to eat you while you dream after falling asleep in class. It is what you make of it (It is a lot easier for calculus to be a fun class if you enjoy doing math. If you don’t enjoy doing math and you still enjoy the class, then I salute you from a safe distance of 1,000 kilometers, because you are crazy.). Personally I enjoyed and was good at calculus, so I had no problem. It was a welcome refresher to the monotony, and boredom of pre-cal. The material is more engaging, and is overall more interesting than pre-cal. So you have that to look forward to. Or to dread, depending on your perspective. If you enjoy a challenge, this class will either be just up your ally, or merely wet your appetite. If you don’t enjoy a challenge, then you probably have a low definition of challenge, and this class will plague you. As far as the AP exam goes, there are two options you have before you: Study, or know calculus. If you don’t know all of calculus, then you will probably have to study, unless you are godlike at guessing, which I know is not true, or else you would have won the lottery and wouldn’t be here. How you perform in class should be a good way to gauge how well your attempts at knowing calculus are coming, but its never a bad idea to do a little extra studying once and a while. Unless you are failing, then a little studying isn’t going to help, it’s going to take a lot.

Bus Stop

Howard sat on the bench waiting for his Bus. He felt comfortable with the soft wood below him. He had a soft grip on the iron handlebar, and his other arm was wrapped around his bag. He tilted his head upward to feel the sun on his face. It was warm. The air was fluid, and fresh. Howard sniffed the air. He could smell the glorious scent of grease from the hotdog cart down the street.
Hunger was now making Howard anxious, and he started tapping his foot against the concrete sidewalk. At first his tapping was light and inconsistent. He blocked out the whiz of the cars. He failed to notice that the sunlight was waning. Time wore on and his tapping turned into rhythmic pounding. Eventually he was lifting his leg as high as he could, and bringing it down with the force of his entire body. He became so immersed in his exercise that he started yelping each time he brought his foot down. His hunger evaporated. He was now gripping the iron handlebar tightly. His other arm was still wrapped around his bag, but that hand was now squeezing his thigh.
“What is that nut doing?” someone whispered.
“I have no clue,” said a similar voice.
Howard had been so preoccupied with his pounding that he had failed to recognize that several people had come out of the office building across the street, and were waiting at the bus stop with him. Howard stopped immediately, though he continued to tap his toes inside his shoe.
Howard regretted stopping. He had been coming to this bus stop for several years now, and he knew that the only other people that used it worked in the office building across the street. He didn’t mind if they thought he was crazy because they would think he was crazy no matter what he did.
“People that get a job in a place like that think everyone else is crazy,” Howard thought to himself.
Still, he was embarrassed. He thought about explaining himself to them, but decided that it was futile. At least they were quiet now. Normally, Howard would embrace conversation of any kind, but the young energetic jerks that worked in that office building were all so similar, that he had given up talking to them after about 3 months.
The bus was late. Howard knew what was coming, but he dreaded it. He felt the darkness crawling over his legs, and gave a low exasperating groan. Because of the placement of the office building, the sun was now disappearing behind it. This was why Howard made a deal with his boss, that he would start work two hours early, so he could leave one hour early. This was why Howard hated the office building so much. Late in the afternoon, it would completely block out the sun over the bus station across the street.
The bench Howard was sitting on was now hard and uncomfortable. The iron handlebar became too cold to hold onto. Howard clutched his bag closely. The air became cold and lifeless. Howard was shivering, but he could have lived with this, if not for the other change. The workers from the office building, as if invigorated by their dark master, began to talk, and talk loud. They were on the verge of shouting. Everything they said was unintelligible. They seemed to be infused with energy so great, that they couldn’t control it.
Howard crammed himself as far into his corner of the bench as he could. The ice-cold iron handlebar was heavenly compared to the terrible screeches of the office drones.
The longer Howard sat there, the harder it was to tell the direction the noise was coming from. The drones’ cackling blocked out all other sound, and without sound, Howard was without direction. He couldn’t take it. He was spinning out of control. Tears dribbled from his eyes and pooled on the bottom rim of his sunglasses.
“Shut up!” He yelled into the darkness with all his strength. It worked; the drones had ceased their jovial ranting. Howard’s stomach growled.
All Howard heard in the next couple minutes was the screech of tires. The screeching stopped, and was replaced with the scuttling of feet. The bus had arrived. Howard took out his retractable cane, and deployed it with a flick of the wrist. He tapped his way onto the bus.
The drones sat on the bench, their thoughts intertwining, “I’m not getting on the bus with that maniac.”

Feet are important

Your feet are your foundation. The wobbly building that is you, can barely stay up as it is. Without your feet, your body would topple, crash, and burn. If your feet magically disappeared, it would be impossible for you to run, skip, hop, jump, or stand. You would be forced to crawl on the ground like the mangy footless beast you would become. People would point and laugh at you, because people are insensitive jerks. Your own mother would giggle when you would try to balance on your two stubs. You are a hideous freak of nature. Without your feet, you would be a hideous freak of nature, with no feet.
Your body is your temple. Imagine your body is a beautiful temple made of gold. Your feet are the steps. Without the steps no one would be able to get inside. Thus no one would be able to get inside to make use of the temple. Eventually the temple would be abandoned (No family, no friends, just you, lying in the gutter). With no one to take care of it, the temple would start to become overgrown, and decrepit (Your hygiene would be terrible, and you would get gang green). Eventually the land would be bought by a billionaire who would demolish the temple and sell the gold (You will die and someone will harvest your organs for themselves).
If you can somehow keep your feet connected to your body, you must take care of them. If you do not take care of your feet, you will have poor circulation and you will die. Or, your feet my just stink (Like my Dad‘s feet). Imagine yourself as a temple again. If you leave the steps of your temple unguarded, hobos will start sleeping on there (There will be Bacterial growth). These hobos will feed off the leftovers from the temple feasts, and will defecate on the steps (The Bacteria feast on your sweat and defecate on your feet). Excrement tends to smell terrible (Excrement always smells terrible).
Your feet are not only the steps to your temple; they are also the foundation and plumbing. Besides the obvious fact that without your feet you would fall over, that would be funny though, your feet are an important part of your blood circulation. When you don’t take care of your feet your circulation can become out of whack, and make you ache. Without blood flow your body would slowly rot, and you would need to have limbs and extremities amputated. Not taking care of your feet could result in the loss of your hand, or foot, or legs, or life, or pinky toe, or nothing.
“Your feet are the most important and living parts of your body.” (http://www.socks-i.com/Ilovemyfeet.htm) Your feet are alive, unlike the rest of your body. To mistreat them is cruelty to animals (Technically it is cruelty to feet). It is illegal to mistreat your feet (Not really, but it should be (No, it shouldn‘t be illegal)). Without your feet you would die (You will die with or without your feet). The only thing worse than mistreating your feet is overusing parentheses merely to drive the reader insane (It is fun though). Your feet are important so you should take care of them.