To Skinny Dip Your Toe
I’ve always wanted to go mudflat walking in the Waddenzee. This, ever since hypothesising as a toddler that chocolate pudding would present a more propitious milieu for learning how to swim than would your regular lake or puddle. Cake and muddle. Kalter Hund. After all, those bits of biscuits go swimmingly into that hot salt-water mess. Sherbert-salina more like it, with added starch. Until of course, it all turns ominous and aspic. It may squarely be the fact that they design petit beurre biscuits to unreflectingly resemble flat feet (albeit with four big toes on all four corners or the quadrant), that I imagine I would schlip-schlyap through the mud in coldest blood, my flippers unfrozen. And even if it be too cold, I’d still take off my toes and brave it, bbbbbbbbbarefoot, for as The Common Decency obliges (Adam Smith), one oughtn’t appear any otherwise in public. Tollpatsch. I’d trudge through sludge, my toes like moles, indomitably throwing themselves forward. Dem tiny torpedoes - to only subsequently surface in caramel craters and heapfuls of sugar (Maulwürfel). SO glad we humans have decided, as a species, to not evolve such independent-minded digits (detachable, delectable), or else how could we stop them from haplessly splaying in all five corners of the universe. Just ask the star-nosed snout who long has known this selfsame predicament of having not even a singular snivel.